IX.— The  card  must  always  be  presented  when  asking  for 
a  book,  and  on  renewing  or  returning  a  book.  The  proper 
holder  is  in  all  eases  responsible  for  books  drawn  with  this 
card.  If  lost,  fifteen  days  (required  to  stop  its  use  in  other 
hands)  must  elapse  after  notice  being  given  of  its  loss 
before  it,  can  be  replaced. 

X — A  book  may  be  renewed  but  once.  Prompt  notice 
of  change  of  residence  must  be  given  at  the  Library,  and  tin- 
card  must  be  surrendered  when  the  holder  ceases  to  be  a 
resident. 


REVIEW-PRESS    PRINT. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


(_ 


MEN  I  HAVE 


FISHED  \V'TH 


SKETCHES  OF  CHARACTER  AND  INCIDENT  WITH  ROD 

AND  GUN,  FROM  CHILDHOOD  TO  MANHOOD ; 

FROM  THE  KILLING   OF  LITTLE  FISHES 

AND  BIRDS  TO  A  BUFFALO  HUNT. 


BY  FRED  MATHER 

("KEGO-E-KAY"). 


Author  of  "Adirondack  Fishes,"  "Trouting  on  the  Bigosh,"  "A 

Gander  Pull  in  Arkansaw,"  "The  Death  of 

Pongo"  and  Other  Stories. 


WITH  PORTRAITS. 


"For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety— 

A  port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see, 

But  as  smooth  as  all  is  rugged  now ; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war  have  ploughed 

My  very.soul  from  out  my  brow." 

— Mazeppa. 


NEW  YORK: 
POKEST  AND  STREAM  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1897. 


COPYRIGHT,  1897. 

BY   THE 

FOREST  AND  STREAM  PUBLISHING  CO. 


CONTENTS. 


REUBEN  WOOD II 

My  First  Fish. 

BILLY   BISHOP 20 

Bobbing  for  Eels. 

JOHN   ATWOOD 30 

First  Night  in  Camp. 

PORTER  TYLER 41 

My  Early  Teacher  of  Woodcraft. 

GEORGE  DAWSON 54 

My  First  Trout. 

MAJOR  GEORGE  S.   DAWSON 64 

GEORGE  W.   SIMPKINS 67 

My  First  Deer. 

COLONEL  CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND 79 

Turtles,  Setters  and  Ducks. 

THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS 89 

Michigan  in  '49 — My  First  Turkey. 

CAPTAIN   IRA   WOOD  102 

Striped  Bass  in  Fresh  Water— Early  Greenbush. 

GENERAL   MARTIN   MILLER 114 

Skating,  Ice-Boating  and  Camp  Cookery. 

GARRETT   VAN    HOESEN 127 

Spearing  Eels  and  Trapping  Rabbits. 

STEPHEN   MARTIN 141 

Trap  and  Rifle  Shooting— The  War  Cloud. 

GEORGE   RAYNOR  156 

Duck  Shooting  and  a  Tragedy. 


M3734B3 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHARLES  GUYON 169 

Gigging  Fish  in  Wisconsin — Shooting  a  Deer  with 
Wooden  Plugs. 

CORPORAL  HENRY  R.   NEAVILLE 184 

A  'Coon  Hunt— Fishing  the  "Sloos"  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

ANTOINE    GARDAPEE  200 

Canto  I. — Trapping  Fur — Killing  a  Wolverine. 

ANTOINE  GARDAPEE 217 

Canto  II. — Another  Wolverine — Snow  Blind. 

ANTOINE   GARDAPEE.  234 

Canto  III. — Christmas  in  the  Forest. 

SERGEANT   FRANK   NEAVILLE 251 

Fish,  'Coons  and  Pawpaws. 

TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY  268 

In  Northern  Minnesota — Fishing  Through  Ice. 

WE-NEN-GWAY  286 

A  Muskrat  Feast— The  Trip  Home  on  the  Ice. 

SERGEANT  WILLIAM   PATTERSON 303 

A  "Bad  Man,"  a  Load  of  Fish  and  a  Dead  Child. 

WILLIAM    WARREN 317 

Shooting  Fish  in  Kansas  —  Bachelor's  Hall —  The 
Border  War. 

AMOS   DECKER 336 

Skittering  for  Pike — Legerdemain — My  Only  Buf- 
falo Hunt. 

A  CHRISTMAS  WITH   "OLD   PORT" 353 

Return  of  the  Wanderer  and  the  Feast  Port  Tyler 
Made  in  Honor  of  the  "Jayhawker"  —  Stories 
Told  by  Port,  Billy  Bishop,  Mat  Miller  and 
Others  Until  Daylight  Came  Through  the 
Windows. 


PORTRAITS. 


>FRED   MATHER Frontispiece 

From  a  photograph  in  1897. 

REUBEN    WOOD 16 

GEORGE   DAWSON 56 

MAJOR  GEORGE  S.   DAWSON 64 

COLONEL   CHARLES   H.   RAYMOND 80 

CAPTAIN   IRA   WOOD 112 

GENERAL   MARTIN   MILLER 120 

STEPHEN    MARTIN 144 

FRED    MATHER 352 

From  photograph  in  1864,  as  First  Lieutenant  Bat- 
tery L,  Seventh  New  York  Heavy  Artillery. 


_v 


A  WORD  WITH  THE  READER. 

THESE  sketches  originally  appeared  in  the  Forest  and 
Stream.  Read  between  the  lines,  and  at  times  in  them, 
will  be  found  the  wanderings  of  a  boy  who  had  no  further 
object  in  view  than  to  be  in  the  woods  and  on  the  waters, 
and  who  had  no  taste  for  anything  like  the  harness  of 
civilization. 

During  the  years  of  vagabondizing  many  things  oc- 
curred which  at  the  time  seemed  to  deserve  little  notice, 
but  subsequently  grew  into  pleasant  memories ;  and  I  be- 
gan to  write  them  up,  naturally  expecting  that  my  imme- 
diate relatives  and  personal  friends  would  read  them  with 
some  interest.  I  was  surprised  and  gratified  to  find  how 
many  strangers  said  pleasant  things  of  them,  and  to  know 
that  there  was  a  demand  for  them  in  book  form. 

The  present  volume  comprises  the  twenty-four  chap- 
ters which  appeared  between  July  n  and  Dec.  26,  1896. 
Other  sketches  of  "Men  I  Have  Fished  With"  have  been 
printed  since,  and  at  this  writing,  in  October,  1897,  the 
series  is  in  progress. 

I  have  aimed  to  make  a  sketch  of  the  boy  or  man  of 
whom  I  wrote,  so  that  the  reader,  gentle  or  otherwise, 
would  know  him,  as  I  thought  I  did,  and  I  find  myself  tell- 
ing how  to  bob  for  eels,  camp  out  and  sleep  in  barns,  kill 
deer  with  wooden  plugs,  taking  my  first  trout  on  a  worm,  • 
hunting  turtles  with  Colonel  Raymond  in  boyhood  and 
reviewing  his  famous  setters  in  after  years,  shooting  tur- 
keys, spearing  eels  through  ice,  and  many  other  things  too 
numerous  to  mention,  up  to  the  time  when  I  was  glad  to 
get  back  home. 


8  A  WORD  WITH  THE  READER. 

My  lesson  had  been  learned  in  that  dearest  of  schools, 
but  it  took  more  years  than  with  apter  scholars.  Yet  I 
have  never  regretted  the  cost  of  the  education. 

The  earlier  incidents  recorded  took  place  in  Green- 
bush,  N.  Y.,  and  on  the  Popskinny  Creek.  I  have  outlived 
them  both.  The  creek  was  merely  an  arm  of  the  Hudson 
reaching  behind  an  island,  and  water  no  longer  flows 
through  it.  I  tried  to  get  at  its  correct  name,  but  failed. 
Mr.  A.  C.  Stott,  of  Stottville,  N.  Y.,  writes  that  on  a  1777 
map  it  is  spelled  "Popscheny,"  and  that  older  writers  give 
"Palp-Sikenekoitas,"  while  O'Callaghan,  in  his  "History 
of  the  New  Netherlands,"  speaks  of  the  "Papsknee."  Col- 
onel David  A.  Teller,  whose  family  has  owned  a  farm  on  its 
banks  for  over  a  century,  gives  me  other  spellings,  and 
I've  seen  it  as  "Popsquinea,"  therefore  I  have  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  spelling  it  as  we  boys  pronounced  it.  It 
makes  no  difference  now,  it  does  not  exist. 

Greenbush  is  dead  in  name  only.  It  is  now  a  city  of 
the  Empire  State,  having  been  consolidated  with  East 
Albany,  Bath  and  other  places,  under  the  name  of  Rens- 
selaer — confound  the  vandals  who  had  no  regard  for  the 
historic  name  honored  in  history  by  Fort  Crailo,  which  is 
the  oldest  building  now  standing  in  America,  and  by 
Washington's  headquarters  on  the  McCulloch  farm,  on 
the  heights  above  the  village. 

So,  one  by  one,  the  columns  supporting  the  arches  of 
our  memories  are  swept  away  by  a  younger  generation, 
which  cares  nothing  for  them.  They  are  falling  fast. 
Men  who  are  now  reckless  boys  will  live  to  realize  this. 
A  year  ago  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  old  scenes,  and  I 
regret  it. 

I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  The  tan-yard  was 
gone;  the  nut  orchard  was  filled  with  cottages,  and  the 
trees  had  gone  where  good  trees  go.  No  one  likes  to  out- 


A  WORD  WITH  THE  READER.  9 

live  his  cherished  world  or  wants  to  know  the  holder  of  his 
birthplace  and  the  intruders  in  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood.  - 
I  will  go  there  no  more;  I  prefer  to  have  my  memories 
left  undisturbed.      The  "City  of  Rensselaer"  may  grow 
and  prosper,  but  Greenbush  has  passed  away. 

I  hope  the  reader  may  find  as  much  pleasure  in  these 
memories  of  boyhood  as  I  did  in  writing  them. 

F.  M. 


REUBEN   WOOD. 

MY  FIRST  FISH. 

THIS  noted  sportsman,  who  for  nearly  half  a  century 
made  his  home  in  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  was  well 
known  throughout  the  State,  and  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  have  him  as  an  instructor  in  the  art  of  angling 
in  earliest  boyhood.  We  were  born  in  the  then  small  vil- 
lage of  Greenbush  (opposite  Albany),  he  in  December, 
1822,  and  I  eleven  years  later. 

Almost  every  man  who  has  passed  the  half-century 
milestone  on  life's  journey  loves  to  imitate  Lot's  wife  and 
look  over  his  shoulder,  and  usually  the  retrospect  is  pleas- 
ant because  we  do  not  remember  clearly;  we  conjure  up 
the  roses  in  the  pathway,  and  the  small  thorns  are  indis- 
tinct in  the  distance;  a  faint  humming  of  the  bees  whose 
honey  we  stole  brings  no  remembrance  of  the  penalty 
paid  for  it ;  the  wound  of  the  sting  is  cured  by  the  honey — 
in  memory,  at  least.  Poor  indeed  is  the  man  of  fifty  who 
has  no  wealth  of  retrospect  and  who  thinks  the  punish- 
ment of  Lot's  wife  was  fitted  to  the  crime !  It  was  cruelly 
unjust,  and  in  compensation  at  this  late  day  she  should  be 
sainted  perhaps  with  the  name  and  title  of  Saint  Salina. 
Here  I  pause  to  ask  if  there  is  really  any  such  thing  as 
an  occult  cerebration  which  caused  my  pen  to  turn  to 
thoughts  of  Lot's  wife  while  writing  an  apology  for  look- 
ing back  at  the  boyhood  of  a  citizen  of  Syracuse,  N.  Y., 
the  great  salt-producing  city  of  the  State? 

There  are  men  who  never  could  have  been  boys — en- 
gaged in  boyish  sports  and  had  a  boy's  thoughts.  Every 
one  has  known  such  men.  Men  who  must  have  been  at 

least  fifty  years  old  when  they  were  born — if  that  event 

11 


12  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

ever  happened  to  them — and  have  no  sort  of  sympathy 
for  a  boy  nor  his  ways;  crusty  old  curmudgeons  who 
never  burned  their  fingers  with  a  firecracker  or  played 
hookey  from  school  to  go  a-fishing.  They  may  be  very 
endurable  in  a  business  way,  but  are  of  no  possible  use  as 
fishing  companions.  I  speak  by  the  card,  for  I've  been 
in  the  woods  with  them. 

Reuben  Wood  was  a  boy,  and  was  one  to  me  as  long 
as  he  lived.  We  were  boys  together,  he  being  a  big  boy 
when  I  was  but  a  little  one;  he  was  at  our  house  a  great 
deal,  and  is  among  the  earliest  of  memories.  He  was 
"Reub"  all  through  life  to  all  his  familiars,  and  they  were 
many. 

It  was  a  summer  day,  and  I  was  some  six  or  eight 
summers  old,  when  Reub  came  down  the  street  with  some 
fish  that  he  had  caught  in  a  stream  then  the  northern 
boundary  of  the  village,  but  now  in  it  and  fishless.  After 
much  solicitation  he  agreed  to  let  me  in  the  party  next 
day — Bruin  and  me.  Now,  Bruin  was  a  big  Newfound- 
land dog  belonging  to  my  father  which  Reub  had  taught 
to  pick  me  up  whenever  he  said,  "Bruin,  go  fetch  Fred," 
no  matter  what  screams,  kicks  and  protests  his  burden 
made,  and  this  was  one  of  Reub's  jokes  which  I  failed  to 
appreciate.  We  started,  Bruin  and  I,  in  high  glee.  Reub 
cut  some  poles,  rigged  the  lines,  floats  and  hooks  and  put 
on  the  worms,  and  he  soon  had  a  perch,  a  monster  it 
seemed  then  and  does  yet,  while  the  sunfish  that  tried  to 
run  away  with  my  float  and  which  Reub  helped  to  land 
probably  weighed  more  than  the  grocer's  scales  could 
tell;  it  must  have  been  as  big  as  100  modern  ones,  and 
Reub  said  "it  was  as  big  as  a  piece  of  chalk."  Such  was 
my  first  experience  in  angling,  as  clear  in  memory  as  if 
only  a  week  ago. 

A  little  pond  turtle  stuck  his  head  up  near  the  float, 


REUBEN  WOOD.  13 

looked  at  it  and  us,  and  paddled  to  the  bottom  in  the  fun- 
niest way.  Reub  called  it  a  "skillypot,"  but  he  had  funny 
names  for  everything.  Then  I  caught  a  perch,  actually 
bigger  than  the  sunfish,  and  a  new  world  seemed  to  open; 
but  the  spines  of  the  fish  cut  my  hand  and  the  world  was 
not  so  bright.  Five  fish  came  to  my  lot  in  all,  but  Reub 
had  about  twenty — some  perch,  sunfish,  two  bullheads 
and  an  eel.  He  said  that  I  let  the  fish  eat  the  worms  off. 
I  saw  a  turtle  climb  on  a  log  while  Reub  was  up  the  bank 
after  more  worms,  and  I  went  out  on  the  log  to  get  it,  but 
the  turtle  slid  into  the  water,  and  so  did  I.  A  scream 
brought  Reub,  who  whistled  for  Bruin  and  ordered  him 
to  "Fetch  Fred,"  and  he  did.  Oh,  the  dripping  of  clothes 
and  the  splashing  of  shoes  as  we  went  home,  and  the  fear- 
ful tale  of  a  turtle  who  wouldn't  wait  to  be  caught !  This 
last  seemed  the  greatest  cause  of  grief  and  afforded  Reub 
and  other  boys  a  text  for  teasing,  which  they  worked  to 
an  annoying  extent,  and  it  was  long  before  he  would  take 
me  fishing  again,  saying,  "No,  you'll  go  diving  for  tur- 
tles." This  occurred  about  1840,  and  Reub  referred  to 
it  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  in  1883. 

At  this  time  Greenbush  was  a  very  quaint  little  village 
on  the  upper  Hudson,  whose  connection  with  the  outside 
world  was  by  the  Albany  stage  to  Boston  and  by  ferry  to 
Albany.  No  railroad  entered  it,  and  in  fact  the  only  one 
at  that  time  in  the  whole  State  of  New  York  ran  from 
Albany  to  Schenectady,  and  hauled  its  cars  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  by  a  stationary  engine  before  hooking  on  the 
light  locomotive.  The  place  was  favorable  for  the  devel- 
opment of  character,  unhampered  by  the  conventionalities 
which  come  from  contact  with  outside  people,  and  Reu- 
ben grew  to  manhood  there  and  retained  a  quaint  sim- 
plicity all  his  life,  a  rugged,  honest  nature,  whom  it  was 
refreshing  to  know,  and  was  a  lovable  man  to  meet.  If, 


14  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

as  a  boy,  he  ever  indulged  hi  forays  on  the  fruit  and  melon 
patches  of  the  farmers,  the  fact  is  unknown  to  me.  That 
I  did  is  certain,  but  the  disparity  of  years  forbade  com- 
radeship in  such  nocturnal  pleasures.  He  was  large, 
strong  and  heavy  of  movement,  with  a  deep  chest  voice, 
even  when  a  boy,  that  was  remarkable.  His  brother  Ira, 
nearer  my  age,  resembled  him  in  this  and  other  particu- 
lars, and  in  both  there  was  an  air  of  honesty  and  truthful- 
ness, not  so  frequent  in  boys,  which  was  fully  borne  out  in 
their  characters  as  men. 

In  after  years  I  had  a  joke  on  Reub  which  was  orig- 
inally on  me  as  a  boy,  but  later  knowledge  reversed  it. 
With  some  other  boys  I  had  been  fishing  away  up  the  hill 
in  the  pond  of  the  locally  famous  "red  mill,"  and  had  seen 
a  pair  of  wood  ducks  alight  upon  a  tree.  We  somehow 
knew  that  they  were  wild  ducks,  but  had  no  idea  that  the 
term  included  more  than  one  kind,  for  at  that  day  we  only 
knew  one  sort  of  tame  ducks.  To  see  a  duck  alight  on 
a  tree  was  strange,  and  I  told  Reub  of  it;  and  he  spread 
the  incredible  story,  for  he  knew  nothing  of  wood  ducks, 
and  the  laugh  was  on  me.  "Seen  any  ducks  lightin'  on 
trees  lately?"  was  a  common  and  annoying  salutation,  and 
years  later  the  question  was  turned  on  Reub.  I  fished 
with  him  many  times  as  a  boy,  never  after  he  left  Green- 
bush  for  Syracuse,  in  1852;  but  we  met  occasionally  after 
1876,  when  thrown  together  at  fairs  and  fly-casting  tour- 
naments, and  he  seemed  to  be  the  same  boy  that  somehow 
had  gray  hair. 

The  picture  of  him  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  his  manly 
face,  but  the  cigar  I  do  not  recognize.  This  is  not  re- 
markable, because  he  used  from  a  dozen  to  twenty  each 
day,  and  there  are  people  who  might  not  recognize  his 
picture  without  a  cigar  of  some  kind.  The  badge  upon 
his  corduroy  coat  is  a  certificate  that  he  is  a  member  of 


REUBEN  WOOD.  15 

the  Onondaga  Fishing  Club,  of  Syracuse,  which  was  al- 
ways represented  at  the  State  Sportsmen's  tournaments. 
Take  a  good  look  at  him!  That  kind,  honest  face  would 
be  a  passport  anywhere.  To  me  he  was  always  the  same 
lovable  boy  to  whom  I  looked  up  as  guide,  philosopher 
and  friend  on  my  first  fishing  trip  away  back  in  the  forties. 
I  think  I  am  a  better  man  for  knowing  Reub  Wood  when 
he  was  a  big  boy  and  I  a  child.  From  him  I  learned  that 
the  world  was  round — "rounder  than  a  marble,"  he  said — 
and  I  saw  that  the  sky  was  the  upper  half  and  that  we 
were  inside  the  world;  if  he  knew  better  he  never  ex- 
plained the  matter. 

Reuben's  humor  was  manifested  in  the  use  of  strange 
words,  which  he  probably  manufactured,  as  I  never  heard 
them  from  any  other  person.  A  bad  knot  in  a  fish  line 
was  a  "wrinkle-hawk,"  an  excellent  thing  was  "just  exe- 
bogenus,"  a  big  fish  was  "an  old  codwalloper,"  and  a 
long-stemmed  pipe  was  "a  flugemocker."  What  a  blank 
page  is  a  boy's  memory  that  such  things  written  on  it 
remain  indelible  for  over  half  a  century  when  more  im- 
portant ones  have  faded!  The  name  of  Reub  Wood  con- 
jures up  these  trifling  things,  which,  if  heard  ten  years 
ago,  would  have  been  forgotten.  But  he  had  such  a 
strong  individuality  that  a  person  who  only  met  him  for 
ten  minutes  would  be  impressed  by  it,  and  would  know 
him  in  after  years ;  what  wonder  that  he  should  carve  his 
personality  on  the  mind  of  a  child?  Impressions  of  other 
men  and  boys  in  that  small  village  are  also  quite  distinct, 
and,  as  is  usual  in  such  places,  there  is  more  profanity 
and  obscenity  heard  by  a  boy  than  in  cities,  for  the  tough 
boy  in  small  places  excels  in  such  things,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  he  was  worse  then  than  now.  But  the  worst 
that  I  ever  heard  Reub  say  was  "Gosh  hang  it,"  under  the 
provocation  of  having  to  cut  a  fish  hook  out  of  his  thumb. 


16  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

His  mind  was  as  pure  as  his  life,  and  that  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  many  who  live  straight  enough,  but  have 
to  resist  temptation  frequently.  A  man  is  not  so  much  to 
be  judged  by  his  actions  as  by  his  thoughts,  if  you  only 
knew  them,  and  Reub's  thoughts  were  his  spoken  words. 

In  Greenbush  he  was  employed  in  the  bakery  of  Jonas 
Whiting,  where  he  learned  the  mysteries  of  bread  and 
cakes,  and  when  he  went  to  Syracuse  he  blossomed  out 
as  a  caterer  for  balls  and  parties,  and  then  established  a 
business  in  fishing  tackle,  now  carried  on  under  the  name 
of  "Reuben  Wood's  Sons."  His  old  cash  book  is  still 
extant,  and  was  not  only  what  its  name  implied,  but  was 
day  book,  journal  and  ledger  all  in  one,  with  a  margin  for 
a  weather  record  which  contained  such  items  as  "Gone 
hunting,"  "Went  after  ducks,"  "Gone  a-fishing,"  etc. 
This  is  indefinite,  and  one  wonders  what  the  result  may 
have  been  until  we  strike  the  entry:  "Wood  returned  from 
Piseco  with  250  Ibs.  of  trout." 

In  that  early  day,  in  the  fifties,  Onondaga  Lake 
abounded  in  pickerel  and  eels,  and  Reub  and  his  compan- 
ions often  made  a  night  of  it,  taking  them  with  torch  and 
spear,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  time,  and  the  catch  went 
to  their  friends  and  the  poor.  When  this  mode  of  fishing 
became  unpopular  and  unlawful,  in  later  years,  Reuben 
was  one  of  the  foremost  in  suppressing  all  kinds  of  fishing 
that  the  law  forbade;  but  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak 
there  was  neither  law  on  the  subject  nor  public  sentiment 
against  spearing.  He  followed  the  custom  of  the  day, 
merely  drawing  the  line  at  fishing  on  Sunday. 

A  chum  of  Reub's  was  Mr.  Charles  Wells,  of  Wells, 
Fargo  &  Co.'s  Express,  and  they  went  shooting  and  fish- 
ing when  the  spirit  moved.  Mr.  Wells  had  not  only  all 
the  railroad  transportation  necessary,  but  could  have 
trains  stopped  anywhere  in  the  woods  if  necessary,  night 


REUBEN   WOOD. 


REUBEN  WOOD.  17 

or  day,  by  flag  or  fire  signal.  This  brings  a  sigh,  not  of 
envy,  but  merely  a  wish  that  such  conditions  existed  to- 
day and  I  was  "in  it,"  as  the  saying  goes. 

One  day  in  the  fall  of  1857  a  report  came  to  Mr.  Wells 
that  there  were  "rafts  of  ducks"  on  Cayuga  Lake,  one  of 
those  numerous  large  lakes  of  Western  New  York  lying 
some  thirty  miles  west  of  Syracuse,  and  a  famous  one  for 
ducks.  He  told  Reub  just  in  time  for  him  to  gather  his 
muzzle-loader  and  ammunition  and  get  the  next  train 
going  to  Cayuga,  at  the  foot  of  the  lake  via  the  "old  road" 
of  the  New  York  Central  R.  R.,  a  road  then  so  slow  that 
it  took  the  best  part  of  a  day  to  get  there.  Wells  had  his 
camping  outfit,  and  they  camped  for  the  night.  As  Reub 
told  me  the  story  years  afterward,  daylight  found  him  in 
an  old  dugout,  the  only  semblance  of  a  boat  at  hand,  while 
Wells  had  a  good  place  on  the  shore.  The  ducks  were 
flying  down  the  lake  and  Wells  had  killed  several,  and 
was  signaling  him  to  come  and  pick  them  up,  when  a 
great  flock  of  bluebills  came  up  the  stream  and  turned 
directly  over  Reub's  head.  As  he  let  both  barrels  go  the 
dugout  somehow  let  him  go  into  ice-cold  water,  but  he 
hung  on  to  his  gun  and  got  ashore  chilled  to  the  bone, 
and  took  the  first  train  for  Syracuse,  where  he  traded  his 
gun  and  equipments  for  a  Knight's  Templar  badge  and 
other  things,  and  from  that  day  foreswore  the  gun  and 
devoted  his  energies  to  wielding  the  rod. 

About  this  time  Mr.  Wells  learned  to  fish  with  the  fly 
and  taught  Reuben  the  art,  to  which  he  became  devoted. 
It  was  long  after  this  that  I  met  Reuben,  the  occasion 
being  the  tournaments  of  the  New  York  State  Associa- 
tion for  the  Protection  of  Fish  and  Game,  where  he  was 
a  frequent  competitor  in  the  fly-casting  tournaments,  but 
never  would  allow  himself  or  his  brother  Ira  to  win  first 
prize  because  of  a  chivalric  idea  that  another  competitor — 


18  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

to  whom  he  always  deferred — should  not  be  beaten. 
Either  of  them  could  outcast  the  other  man,  whose  hog- 
gish nature  never  allowed  him  to  acknowledge  the 
knightly  courtesy — if  he  had  the  capacity  to  appreciate 
the  sacrifice.  Not  until  the  State  Association  held  its 
tournament  at  Brighton  Beach,  Coney  Island,  in  June, 
1881,  did  Reuben  Wood  ever  have  a  chance  to  cast  un- 
hampered by  his  sentiment.  Here  he  had  a  new  competi- 
tor with  a  great  local  reputation,  who  had  never  cast  in  a 
State  tournament  before.  This  was  in  the  two-handed 
salmon  rod  contest,  and  Reuben  won  the  first  prize,  val- 
ued at  $50,  with  a  cast  of  noft.  His  brother  Ira  came 
second,  with  loift.  Harry  Prichard  cast  91  ft.,  and  F.  P. 
Dennison  94ft.  All  but  Prichard  were  members  of  the 
Onondaga  Fishing  Club,  of  Syracuse,  and  cast  with  the 
same  rod — a  split-bamboo,  won  by  Reuben  in  the  tourna- 
ment at  Buffalo  in  1878;  length,  I7ft.  I  in.  As  there  was 
an  allowance  of  5ft.  for  every  foot  of  rod  in  length,  Mr. 
Prichard  was  allowed  9ft.  10  in.  because  his  greenheart 
rod  (made  by  himself)  was  ift.  loin,  shorter  than  the  one 
used  by  the  others;  hence  his  amended  record  of  91  ft.  had 
an  allowance  of  9ft.  loin.,  making  it  looft.  loin.,  giving 
him  third  prize  over  Dennison. 

In  1883  Prof.  Spencer  F.  Baird  appointed  Reuben  to 
take  charge  of  the  angling  department  of  the  American 
display  at  the  International  Fisheries  Exposition  in  Lon- 
don, an  appointment  of  which  he  was  justly  proud,  as  he 
wrote  me  in  a  farewell  letter,  and  on  June  1 1  he  took  part 
in  the  English  fly-casting  tournament  at  the  Welch  Harp, 
where  he  won  first  in  salmon  casting  with  an  i8ft.  split- 
bamboo  rod,  scoring  io8ft.,  Mr.  Mallock  casting  io5ft. 
with  an  i8ft.  greenheart  rod.  In  the  single-handed  trout 
contest  he  won  first  with  82^ft.  over  four  competitors.  In 
a  contest  with  two-handed  trout  rods,  a  thing  unknown 


REUBEN  WOOD.  19 

in  America,  Mr.  Mallock  won  first  with  iO5ft.,  and  Mr. 
Wood  took  second  prize  with  io2ft.  gin.  His  many 
trophies  in  the  tournaments  in  Central  Park,  New  York 
City,  are  familiar  to  readers  of  Forest  and  Stream. 

He  died  at  his  home  in  Syracuse  on  Feb.  16,  1884,  m 
his  sixty-second  year.  Mr.  R.  B.  Marston,  editor  of  the 
English  Fishing  Gazette,  said  of  him:  "I  know  many  an 
angler  in  this  country  will  feel  sad  at  hearing  genial,  jolly, 
lovable  'Uncle  Reub'  has  gone  to  his  long  rest.  During 
his  stay  in  this  country  he  never  failed  to  make  friends  of 
all  who  came  in  contact  with  him.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  enthusiasm  and  almost  boy-like  glee  with  which  he 
enjoyed  a  fishing  trip  with  me  to  the  Kennet,  at  Hunger- 
ford.  He  would  stand  for  hours  on  the  old  bridge  watch- 
ing the  trout  and  marveling  at  their  cuteness.  The  sys- 
tem of  dry  fly-fishing  pleased  and  astonished  him  greatly, 
and  he  told  me  he  meant  to  try  it  on  some  wary  old  Amer- 
ican trout  he  was  acquainted  with.  Then  he  would  show 
us  some  of  his  long  casting  with  a  split-cane  rod.  If  we 
in  this  country,  who  only  knew  him  so  short  a  time,  feel 
his  loss  so  keenly,  what  must  those  home  friends  of  his 
feel — his  family  and  that  wide  circle  of  acquaintances  who 
were  proud  to  call  him  friend?'* 

His  death  was  very  sudden — he  fell  dead  while  enter- 
ing his  dining  room.  In  addition  to  his  love  of  the  rod 
he  was  for  many  years  an  active  member  of  the  Syracuse 
Citizens'  Corps,  and  later  of  the  Sumner  Corps,  two  well- 
known  military  organizations.  He  was  also  a  member 
of  the  Baptist  Church,  and  his  name  was  a  synonym  for 
all  that  was  honest  and  manly.  The  last  time  I  met  him 
he  referred  to  our  first  fishing  experience  by  saying, 
"Fred,  are  you  catching  many  turtles  now?"  And  the 
answer  was,  "No,  Reub,  it  keeps  me  busy  watching  wood 
ducks  light  upon  the  trees." 


BILLY    BISHOP. 

BOBBING  FOR  EELS. 

IF  these  hills  should  come  together  where  would  I  be?" 
asked  Billy  when  he  found  himself  alone  in  Quacken- 
dary  Hollow,  where  he  had  been  sent  to  cut  cord- 
wood.  This  was  his  excuse  for  returning  from  a  lone- 
some spot  which  his  superstitious  mind  peopled  with  all 
kinds  of  creatures,  which  might  even  draw  the  hills  to- 
gether and  crush  him,  as  they  had  done  on  many  occa- 
sions, he  said,  in  Holland,  where  his  grandparents  came 
from.  The  scarcity  of  hills  in  that  country  may  not  have 
been  known  to  Billy,  but  that  was  a  matter  of  no  impor- 
tance to  him. 

The  hollow  lay  half  a  mile  above  the  village  of  Green- 
bush,  and  was  then  well  timbered  and  uninhabited. 
Twenty  years  later  it  had  quite  a  settlement,  and  was  often 
called  "Nigger  Hollow."  But  Billy  Bishop  was  fonder  of 
the  society  of  man  than  of  those  weird  inhabitants  who 
worked  evil  in  the  dark  forests  by  day  or  in  open  fields  by 
night.  On  the  hill  above  the  railroad  was  a  field  which 
formed  part  of  the  farm  of  Mr.  Frederick  Aiken,  and  a 
dilapidated  barn  in  it  was  prominent  in  the  sky-line  from 
the  river  road  above  the  first  creek.  This  was  the  "spook- 
house  lot"  and  the  "spook-house  barn,"  the  house  which 
gave  the  name  having  burned  before  my  recollection. 
Billy  told  me  that  spooks  danced  in  the  barn  on  certain 
nights,  and  that  in  the  shape  of  stumps  of  trees  a  dozen  of 
them  had  chased  him  down  the  hill  one  night;  but  before 
daylight  they  changed  into  bats  and  flew  back.  This  was 

certified  to  by  John  Pulver  and  Jakey  Van  Hoesen,  chums 

20 


BILLY  BISHOP.  21 

of  Billy  and  rivals  in  doing  odd  jobs  about  Isaac  Fryer's 
tavern  when  thirsty  and  time  was  plenty.  The  weight  of 
evidence  was  convincing.  These  things  happened  in 
1841,  the  date  being  fixed  by  the  death  of  President  Har- 
rison and  the  fact  that  Billy  said:  "Ef  I'd  'a'  knowed  he 
was  a-goin'  to  die  so  soon  I'd  never  'a'  woted  fur  him." 

At  this  time  Billy  may  have  been  forty  years  old,  may 
have  been  sixty ;  it  was  all  the  same  thing  to  me — he  was 
old.  All  men  over  thirty  were  old,  and  ten  to  thirty  years 
more  made  no  difference. 

"Ef  you  got  a  lantern  I  want  to  borry  it  to-night  to 
get  some  worms  outen  yer  garden,"  said  Billy;  and  it  was 
a  revelation  to  me  to  see  him  pick  up  a  quart  of  big 
"night  walkers"  in  a  short  time. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  big  worms, 
Billy?" 

"Bobbin'  fer  eels;  don't  yer  want  to  go,  to-morrer 
night?" 

"Yes,  if  mother  will  let  me;  come  around  till  I  ask 
her." 

"Well,"  said  mother,  "he  may  go  with  you,  Mr. 
Bishop,  if  you  will  take  care  that  he  doesn't  fall  overboard 
and  you  don't  keep  him  out  too  late  at  night." 

"All  right,  ma'am;  we  can't  stay  late,  because  I'm  only 
goin'  here  in  the  crik  beginnin'  about  sundown,  and  eels 
don't  bite  at  a  bob  much  a'ter  ten  o'clock,  nur,  fur  that 
matter,  much  a'ter  nine.  I'll  take  keer  of  him  all  right, 
an'  mebbe  I'll  have  some  eels  to  skin  fur  yer  bre'kfas', 
ma'am." 

The  worms  had  been  put  in  a  keg  with  plenty  of  earth 
and  set  in  a  cool  place.  I  was  home  from  school  early  in 
the  afternoon,  for  the  mystery  of  bobbing  for  eels  was  to 
be  unfolded  to  me  by  a  master  of  the  art.  Billy  was  on 
hand  an  hour  before  sundown,  and  getting  a  few  yards 


22  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

of  stout  linen  thread  and  a  knitting  needle  from  my 
mother,  we  started  for  the  woodshed  to  arrange  some- 
thing, but  just  what  it  was  to  be  was  a  mystery.  First 
Billy  cut  off  about  six  feet  of  thread  and  fastened  it  to  the 
middle  of  the  knitting  needle  by  a  knot  and  two  half- 
hitches,  two  young  eyes  watching  every  move.  Next  he 
threaded  a  big  worm  straight  through  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  ran  it  the  whole  length  of  the  thread  and  fas- 
tened it  so  that  it  would  not  slip  off.  This  was  repeated 
until  the  thread  was  full  and  was  six  feet  of  living  worms; 
then  he  wound  the  string  around  the  ringers  of  his  left 
hand  until  the  upper  end  was  reached,  when  he  cut  off  the 
knitting  needle,  took  the  coil  from  his  hand  and  laid  it  on 
a  piece  of  fish  line,  which  he  doubled  over  and  tied  hard 
and  fast,  cutting  through  to  the  threads  and  leaving  a 
number  of  worm-covered  loops  at  each  side,  and  the 
"bob"  was  made.  The  fact  that  it  was  a  dirty  job  did  not 
disturb  Billy  nor  me ;  in  fact,  we  boys  made  many  of  them 
afterward,  and  neither  dirt  nor  the  possible  suffering  of 
the  worms  were  ever  given  a  thought ;  and  at  this  ripe  age 
it  seems  to  be  no  worse  than  the  ordinary  baiting  of  a 
hook  with  "our  mutual  friend,"  as  a  late  writer  called  that 
humble  beast  which  we  have  termed  a  "barnyard  hackle" 
and  scientists  have  dignified  with  the  title  of  Lumbricus 
terrestris,  to  signify  his  ownership  or  occupancy  of  the 
soil.  It  simply  seemed  a  trifle  worse  because  the  labor  of 
impalement  and  the  consequent  dirt  came  all  at  once. 
These  things  are  a  matter  of  taste  and  temperament, 
nothing  more. 

With  the  boat  at  anchor  in  the  little  creek,  just  below 
Hiram  Drum's  slaughter  house,  which  was  about  as  far  up 
as  a  boat  could  go  at  ordinary  times,  Billy  told  me  how  to 
proceed. 

"In  swifter  water  we'd  had  to  use  sinkers  to  get  the 


BILLY  BISHOP. 


23 


bobs  straight  down,"  said  he;  "but  we  won't  need  'em 
here.  You  see,  you  want  to  let  your  bob  down  till  it 
touches  the  bottom  and  then  raise  it  a  couple  of  inches, 
for  eels  they  swim  near  the  bottom  and  hit  the  bob  just 
right/' 

"But  you  didn't  put  any  hooks  in  my  bob,  Billy ;  how 
can  I  catch  'em  when  they  bite?" 

His  back  was  to  me  and  he  was  looking  upward.  He 
smacked  his  lips,  put  something  in  his  pocket,  and  said: 
"I  have  to  take  a  little  sassferiller  fer  my  lungs,  the  doctor 
told  me.  Oh,  no!  we  don't  want  no  hooks;  the  eels  just 
gets  their  teeth  tangled  in  the  threads  and  comes  up,  if 
you  bring  'em  easy,  then  when  they  are  just  up  to  the 
surface  of  the  water  lift  'em  quick  and  gentle  inter  the 
boat  and  they  drop  off  theirselves;  but  if  you  jerk  'em 
they're  gone,  er  ef  you  hit  the  side  of  the  boat  with  'em 
they're  gone.  Drop  yer  bob  over  easy,  so,"  and  he  low- 
ered his  bob  in  the  water  without  a  splash.  Soon  I  felt  a 
jig,  jig,  very  sharp,  and  said  to  Billy,  "I've  got  a  bite." 
"Pull  up !"  said  he ;  "never  let  'em  more'n  touch  it,"  and  he 
landed  an  eel  in  the  boat.  I  tried  it,  but  Billy  said  I  was 
too  quick,  for  the  eel  left.  He  took  several  before  I 
boated  one,  for  what  with  jerking  the  line  and  slapping 
them  against  the  side  of  the  boat  they  dropped  back  into 
the  water,  if  they  even  got  fairly  started  on  the  way  up. 

It  was  easy  after  once  getting  the  hang  of  the  thing, 
and  it  soon  came  natural  to  haul  up  slowly  to  the  surface 
and  then  swing  them  into  the  boat.  Good  fun  this  is  in 
shallow  water,  when  no  better  fishing  offers,  and  many  a 
night  have  I  rowed  from  Albany  down  the  Hudson  to 
Van  Wie's  Point — some  six  miles  below  Albany,  more  or 
less — with  a  friend  or  two  and  spent  a  pleasant  evening, 
in  later  years,  fishing  behind  the  dyke  and  just  above  Van 
IWie's  light,  and  then  rowed  back  to  the  city  about  mid- 


24  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

night  with  a  bushel  of  eels,  weighing  from  nothing  up  to 
two  pounds  or  more,  for  the  larger  eels  are  not  so  easily 
captured  in  this  way,  their  weight  tearing  them  loose  in 
the  air. 

The  night  was  clear  and  starlit;  bats  circled  about 
picking  up  insects  here  and  there.  Billy  told  me  that 
they  could  be  caught  if  I  threw  up  my  cap  and  said,  "Bat, 
bat,  come  into  my  hat  and  I'll  give  you  a  pound  of 
cheese."  There  was  no  room  in  the  boat  to  do  this,  but 
I  tried  it  afterward  and  didn't  get  any  bats.  A  large  bird 
flew  just  over  our  heads  with  slow  and  noiseless  flaps,  and 
Billy  said  something  in  Dutch.  "What  was  that?"  I 
asked.  "They're  bad,  them  things  that  fly  at  night  a- 
making  no  noise,  an'  I  doan'  like  'em,"  and  he  took  a  little 
medicine  for  his  lungs.  The  moon,  a  few  days  past  the 
full,  came  up  slowly  just  south  of  the  spook-house  barn, 
and  Billy  said  if  a  bat  flew  across  its  face  I  must  say : 

"Hookum  skookum, 
Rollicum  kookum, 

Holliche  Bolliche, 
Baniche  spookum." 

"Ef  you  don't,"  said  he,  "you'll  go  blind  on  the  side 
next  the  moon."  No  bat  crossed  the  moon  that  night  to 
my  knowledge,  nor  do  I  ever  remember  seeing  one  cross 
it;  but  the  charm  has  been  remembered  and  held  in  re- 
serve should  such  a  thing  happen,  for  no  man  cares  to 
lose  an  eye  when  it  can  be  so  easily  avoided  by  simply 
following  the  directions  of  a  man  so  skilled  in  spook  lore 
as  Billy  Bishop. 

This  night  we  had  fair  success,  and  when  Billy  put  me 
ashore  he  saw  me  safely  home,  only  a  few  doors  below, 
and  said  that  he  would  send  us  up  a  lot  of  dressed  eels  for 
breakfast;  and  he  did.  During  the  fishing  Billy  faithfully 


BILLY  BISHOP.  25 

followed  the  directions  of  Dr.  Getty  and  took  his  medicine 
frequently,  as  I  could  testify;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
as  disgusted  with  it  as  I  was  when  the  same  doctor  pre- 
scribed his  great  tablespoonful  doses  for  me.  I  men- 
tioned this  fact  to  mother,  and  she  said  that  Mr.  Bishop 
was  older  and  more  accustomed  to  medicine,  and  knew 
the  importance  of  following  the  doctor's  orders  better 
than  I.  No  doubt  mother  was  right,  but  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  what  Dr.  Getty  gave  Billy  must  have  tasted 
better  to  him  than  what  he  gave  me ;  but  I  was  young. 

Several  times  afterward  Billy  Bishop  took  me  with 
him  when  he  went  eeling.  Mr.  John  Ruyter,  the  tanner, 
said  it  was  because  Billy  was  afraid  to  go  alone,  but  it  is 
possible  that  a  luncheon  which  mother  left  on  the  table 
for  us  on  our  return  may  have  had  its  influence.  Father 
said  that  Billy  was  not  good  company  for  a  boy,  and  be- 
sides that,  "It  would  be  better  for  Fred  to  stay  at  home 
and  read  or  study  instead  of  being  out  bobbing  for  eels ; 
his  mind  runs  too  much  on  such  foolishness."  But 
mother  argued  that  a  boy  must  have  some  fun  and  could 
not  study  all  the  time,  and  Billy  Bishop  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man  who  had  never  done  anything  wrong,  and 
the  result  was  that  we  had  eels  for  breakfast  many  times. 

Billy  occasionally  played  the  fiddle  for  dances,  not  for 
the  balls  and  parties  of  the  more  fashionable  sort,  but  just 
dances,  where  the  musician  did  not  become  wealthy  all  at 
once.  I  was  too  young  to  know  much  of  this,  but  once 
he  told  me  in  a  low  voice,  while  putting  on  a  fresh  bob 
when  the  water  was  warm  and  the  old  one  was  spoiled, 
that  he  had  played  for  a  dance  a  few  nights  before,  and 
the  big  boys  had  been  "pizen  mean.  They  asked  me  out 
for  'freshments  an'  I  laid  down  my  fiddle  an'  bow,  an' 
when  I  come  back  they'd  sawed  that  bow  'cross  a  candle 
an'  it  was  that  greasy  that  it  sp'iled  the  strings,  an'  I  was 


26  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

done  fur  the  night.  Who  done  it  I  do'no,  but  there  was  Bill 
Fairchild,  John  Stranahan,  Pole  Sherwood  an'  a  lot  on 
'em  there,  an'  they  made  out  like  they  was  awful  sorry." 

Poor  Bill  Fairchild  in  after  years  died  of  burns  re- 
ceived while  rescuing  the  books  from  the  burning  freight 
house  of  the  B.  &  A.  R.  R.,  for  which  he  was  a  book- 
keeper; the  others  have  gone  to  rest  with  old  Billy,  and  no 
more  will  they  grease  his  bow  nor  pour  water  in  his  fiddle 
when  he  goes  ot:t  for  "  'freshments ;"  but  I  was  told  that 
Billy  learned  Td  take  his  fiddle  and  bow  with  him  when 
called  from  labor.  The  humor  of  these  things  did  not 
strike  Billy  in  the  least.  This  was  evident  when  he  asked 
me:  "Now,  what  fun  was  ther'  in  that?  They  hed  to  pay 
me  fur  the  evenin',  and  it  stopped  the  dancin'.  I  tell  ye 
there  was  folks  there  that  was  mad,  but,  bless  ye,  they 
couldn't  find  out  who  done  it.  No  one  done  it.  It  done 
itself!  They  tried  to  make  me  believe  it  was  spooks,  but 
spooks  don't  come  to  dances  where  folks  is;  they  catches 
you  all  alone,  in  the  dark." 

Some  years  later,  probably  about  1845,  when  a  large 
country  store  was  kept  in  the  brick  building  on  the  corner 
of  Columbia  street  and  Broadway,  and  in  great  letters 
announced  "I.  Fly,  Headquarters,"  there  was  a  large  shad 
seine  being  knit  in  the  hotel  of  Isaac  Fryer,  just  above. 
About  a  dozen  men  had  an  interest  in  it,  and  they  knit 
away  every  evening,  Billy  Bishop  and  Jakey  Van  Hoesen 
being  busy  filling  the  needles  with  twine.  I  somehow 
used  to  drop  in  there  and  knit  a  little  early  in  the  evening, 
but  the  men  stayed  late.  No  one  went  down  Broadway 
except  Billy,  and  Mr.  Fly  would  have  a  man  or  two  in 
waiting  to  scare  him.  Sometimes  a  few  stones  rolled 
after  him  would  be  enough  to  start  him  on  a  run ;  at  others 
"spooks"  would  spring  at  him  from  the  churchyard,  and 
although  the  victim  may  have  been  well  fortified  with 


BILLY  BISHOP.  27 

Fryer's  "Hollands,"  his  starting  for  home  required  the 
courage  of  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  which  he  did  not  possess. 
He  would  go  up  street  with  friends  and  around  the  back 
way  until  his  tormentors  found  it  out,  and  in  despair  Billy 
told  the  story  of  his  persecutions,  when  he  was  furnished 
with  an  escort  and  saw  no  more  spooks. 

Once  he  confided  to  me  a  great  secret:  "If  the  eels 
don't  bite  good,"  said  he,  "just  go  to  a  stable  and  look 
over  the  horses'  legs.  You'll  find  a  scab  on  the  inside  of 
every  leg,  and  when  this  is  big  and  comes  off  easy  just 
take  it  and  put  it  in  your  bob  and  the  eels  '11  come  a  long 
way  to  get  at  it;  it  is  powerful  strong,  an'  they  can  smell 
it  for  miles." 

"Why  don't  we  use  it  in  our  bobs?" 

"We  don't  need  it;  they  bite  well  enough  as  it  is;  we 
don't  want  all  the  eels  in  the  river;  what  could  we  do  with 
so  many?" 

That  was  sufficient,  and  if  the  thing  was  ever  tried  I  do 
not  know.  Perhaps  the  idea  originated  in  Billy's  brain 
or  was  told  to  him  by  some  joker,  yet  it  is  possible  that 
the  very  powerful  odor  of  that  gland  would  either  attract 
or  repel  the  fish  in  a  decided  manner.  Let  some  eel  bob- 
ber try  it  and  report  to  Forest  and  Stream.  My  time  for 
bobbing  passed  years  ago,  but  if  opportunity  offers  I  will 
try  it  tentatively  in  the  interest  of  knowledge. 

Once  the  shad  seiners  of  the  village  had  arranged  to 
make  some  hauls  at  the  lower  end  of  the  island  which  lies 
opposite  Albany,  and  Billy  had  brought  up  his  little  boat 
the  night  before  and  left  it  at  the  ferry  where  "Old  Josey," 
the  ferryman,  kept  his  skiff  for  late  night  service  after  the 
steamboat  had  finished  the  day  and  the  horse-boat  had 
carried  the  early  night  passengers.  The  fact  became 
known  to  "Pop"  Huyler,  the  blacksmith;  Charley  Brad- 
bury, the  livery  man,  and  Steve  Miles,  the  carpenter. 


28  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

After  some  deliberation  and  discussion  of  the  case  they 
decided  that  a  short  piece  of  board,  fastened  edgewise  to 
the  under  side  of  the  keel  and  at  an  angle  of  about  forty- 
five  degrees  to  its  length,  would  be  about  the  best  thing 
that  could  be  done  at  the  time.  Bradbury  finished  the 
board  and  Miles  affixed  it,  and  the  boat  was  placed  in  the 
water  with  the  improved  combination  centreboard  and 
rudder.  The  big  scow  came  up  the  river  bearing  the 
great  seine  on  a  platform  over  its  stern,  and  four  stalwart 
oarsmen  made  her  stem  the  current  past  the  ferry.  A 
crowd  had  assembled  when  Billy  appeared  with  a  pair  of 
oars  on  his  shoulder,  and  casting  loose  the  painter  shoved 
off  his  boat,  put  the  oars  in  position  and  began  to  row. 
The  boat  seemed  bewitched,  for  it  kept  going  round  in  a 
circle,  no  matter  how  the  oarsman  tried  to  keep  it  straight, 
and  Billy,  pale  as  a  ghost,  dropped  his  oars  and  was  evi- 
dently praying  in  Dutch.  The  boat  drifted  near  the  dock 
below,  when  Pop  Huyler  kindly  called  to  the  old  man  to 
throw  him  the  rope;  he  did  so,  and  Billy  was  safe,  but 
weak  and  faint. 

"Must  ha'  been  spooks  in  the  boat  last  night,  Billy," 
said  Pop. 

"Yes/'  he  replied,  "I  'spect  so;  might  a  know'd  there'd 
be  bad  luck,  fur  a  hen  crowed  yestidy  an'  the  fust  man  I 
see  this  mornin'  was  cross-eyed." 

"Sure,"  said  Charley  Bradbury,  "that's  enough  to 
bring  bad  luck ;  but,  Billy,  come  up  to  Brockway's  tavern 
and  take  something,  and  say  that  Dutch  prayer  once 
more,  and  that'll  fix  'em  all  right." 

While  Billy  was  repeating  the  exorcising  words  Miles 
got  help  and  pulled  the  boat  on  the  dock  and  ripped  off 
the  board,  launched  the  boat,  and  then,  after  much  per- 
suasion, Billy  tried  it  again;  and  behold!  the  spell  of  the 
witches,  spooks  and  other  evil-doers  was  broken,  and 


BILLY  BISPIOP.  29 

Billy,  with  great  good  humor,  joined  the  party  just  in  time 
to  help  haul  on  the  line  as  the  seine  boat  reached  the 
shore,  fully  convinced  that,  while  spooks  might  tempor- 
arily annoy  him,  he  could  triumph  over  them  in  the  end. 
Old  Vose,  who  played  the  clarionette  in  the  band  on  top 
of  Fly's  "headquarters,"  heard  of  it,  and  got  Billy  to  re- 
peat the  verse  which  could  so  undo  the  work  of  witches ; 
and  as  neither  Billy  nor  he  could  write,  Bill  Fairchild  vol- 
unteered to  act  as  amanuensis,  and  what  he  wrote  no  man 
knows,  for  when  Vose  asked  his  landlady  to  read  it  for 
him  she  became  angry  and  burned  the  paper.  No  doubt 
but  her  method  was  a  good  one,  for  no  one  ever  heard 
that  Billy's  boat  was  ever  bewitched  again. 

Poor  old  Billy!  He  died  after  I  left  the  place,  and  is 
remembered  by  very  few.  Spooks  can  no  longer  chase 
him  at  night,  grease  his  fiddle-bow,  nor  obstruct  his  boat. 
The  hills  have  at  last  come  together  above  him,  but  he  is 
safe. 


JOHN   ATWOOD. 

FIRST  NIGHT  IN  CAMP. 

LOOKED  at  from  later  years  John  was  not  a  bad 
boy,  neither  was  he  a  good  boy,  but  just  one  of 
those  ne'er-do-wells  that  could  not  be  kept  in 
school  nor  out  of  the  woods.  He  was  long  of  leg  and 
could  tell  where  most  of  the  birds'  nests  were  within  a 
circle  of  two  miles,  with  the  schoolhouse  as  a  centre.  His 
acquirements  at  school  dwarfed  beside  his  knowledge  of 
the  best  "fishin'  holes,"  and  some  parents  I  knew  did  not 
look  upon  John  as  a  desirable  companion  for  a  younger 
boy.  He  was  some  three  years  my  senior,  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  country  roads,  and  of  the  birds,  beasts  and 
fishes  made  him  easily  a  leader  of  boys  who  had  a  taste 
for  such  things. 

It  was  long  after  Reuben  Wood  had  shown  me  how 
to  fish  that  I  sat  on  the  railroad  dock  fishing  with  a  pole 
and  float,  for  the  Albany  &  Boston  Railroad  had  invaded 
the  village,  coming  down  between  the  present  site  of  the 
'  Episcopal  Church  and  the  district  school  to  where  the 
lower  bridge  to  Albany  now  spans  the  Hudson,  and  it 
made  a  good  fishing  place  for  boys.  John  Atwood  came 
there  that  Saturday  morning  and  sneered  at  my  tackle. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "that's  the  way  Reub  Wood  fishes,  but 
there  ain't  no  fun  in  it,  for  you  h'ist  'em  out  too  quick 
with  a  pole;  throw  that  away  and  take  off  yer  float,  rig 
yer  sinker  below  the  hooks,  and  when  you  get  a  fish  haul 
him  in  hand  under  hand  and  feel  him  wiggle  all  the  way 
in — that's  sport!"  John's  advice  was  followed  and  ap- 
proved, the  heavy  sinker,  with  two  or  three  hooks  pendant 


JOHN   ATWOOD.  31 

above  it,  was  swung  around  two  or  three  times,  and  away 
it  went  with  a  plunk,  and  a  new  style  of  fishing  was  ac- 
quired, much  to  Reuben's  disgust;  but  the  majority  of  the 
boys  about  Greenbush  seemed  to  prefer  this  mode.  The 
fish  that  we  took  in  the  Hudson  then  were  white  and  yel- 
low perch,  bullheads,  shiners,  eels,  spawn-eaters  (which 
were  small  minnows),  and  an  occasional  sucker;  but  John 
knew  of  the  mud  creek  and  the  dead  creek,  a  couple  of 
miles  down  the  river,  where  the  fish  were  larger  and  more 
plentiful.  The  "dead  creek"  was  a  short  inlet  from  the 
river  running  only  a  few  hundred  yards  into  the  island, 
but  the  "mud  creek,"  as  we  boys  called  it,  was  some  five 
miles  long  and  formed  the  island;  this  was  the  bayou 
which  we  knew  later  as  the  "Popskinny." 

One  Friday  morning,  while  on  the  way  to  school,  John 
was  met.  Two  boys  were  with  him,  and  they  were  on 
the  way  to  the  mud  creek  with  all  equipments.  It  was 
in  the  spring  of  the  year,  and  John  said  : 

"Come  along  and  have  some  good  fishin';  I  wouldn't 
go  to  school  when  the  fish  are  biting  as  they  are  now. 
We  are  going  to  stay  till  Sunday  night,  and  have  three 
days'  fishin'  and  birds'-nestin'.  Come  along;  you're  a 
fool  if  you  don't." 

"Where  will  you  sleep?" 

"In  Rivenburg's  barn,  in  the  hay;  it's  good  and  warm, 
and  we  got  lots  o'  grub  an'  lines." 

Here  was  temptation  in  very  strong  shape,  but  the 
consequences  loomed  up.  His  mother  was  a  widow, 

mine  was  not.  I  could  square  it  with  mother,  but . 

After  some  debate  the  books  were  left  at  the  schoolhouse, 
a  hasty  note  written  to  mother,  saying  that  I  would  be 
home  Sunday  night,  and  we  went. 

Such  fun!  John  cooked  fish  over  coals  of  fire,  we 
covered  ourselves  in  the  hay  at  night,  and  the  crickets 


32  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

sang  weird  songs,  the  bats  flapped  about,  the  frogs  sung 
and  the  owls  hooted.  Surely  this  beat  Robinson  Crusoe 
all  hollow,  for  he  was  all  alone  for  a  while.  This  was  life 
of  an  ideal  kind.  Sunday  night,  when  a  reckoning  might 
be  made,  seemed  too  far  off  for  consideration.  The  pres- 
ent life  was  perfect ! 

We  made  explorations  across  the  bottom  lands  and  up 
the  wooded  hills,  saw  wild  pigeons,  and  John  wished  for 
a  gun;  chipmunks,  squirrels,  birds  of  kinds  new  to  most 
of  us,  but  which  John  could  name,  and  a  rabbit!  Here 
was  big  game  indeed,  and  when  John  oracularly  said, 
"School  is  a  fool  to  this  place,"  there  was  no  dissenting 
voice,  and  all  regretted  when  the  time  came  to  depart. 
We  had  more  fish  than  we  could  carry,  and  only  took  the 
freshest  and  best,  and  toiled  wearily  homeward,  one  in 
the  party  at  least  dreading  the  arrival.  What  mother  said 
over  the  torn  clothes  and  spoiled  shoes  we  will  not  repeat, 
but  when  father  invited  me  to  a  conference  in  the  wood- 
shed she  said:  "Joseph,  I  have  punished  him  severely,  and 
he  has  promised  never  to  go  off  again  without  permission; 
and  he  should  not  be  punished  twice  for  the  same  of- 
fence." A  look  of  disappointment  crossed  father's  face; 
he  evidently  missed  something  that  he  had  mentally 
promised  himself  and  me,  but,  as  I  told  John  Atwood 
next  day:  "Mother  spanked  hard  with  her  slipper,  but  it 
was  nothing  to  what  she  saved  me  from ;"  and  John  agreed 
that  it  happened  just  right.  "But,"  said  he,  "we  are  going 
there  next  Friday  for  three  days  more  of  it;  will  you  go?" 

"No,  I  can't;  I  must  go  to  school." 

"Ask  yer  mother;  she'll  let  you." 

"Not  now;  father  would  object;  wait  a  little  later,  and 
I'll  join  you  there  on  some  Saturday."  And  I  often  did. 

As  near  as  memory  serves,  I  was  about  eleven  years 
old  when  John  proposed  that  I  join  him  and  another  boy 


JOHN    ATWOOD.  33 

in  the  purchase  of  a  gun,  which  could  be  bought  for  $1.50. 
It  was  an  old  flintlock  musket  that  had  been  altered  to 
percussion,  and  we  bought  it.  A  grand  hunt  was  ar- 
ranged, and  off  we  went.  By  drawing  lots  it  was  decided 
that  I  was  the  first  to  carry  the  gun  until  game  was  shot 
at,  and  then  it  was  to  be  passed  to  the  next.  No  knight 
who,  after  watching  his  armor  alone  all  night,  girded  it 
on  for  the  first  time  to  engage  in  tournament  or  battle, 
was  prouder  than  I  at  shouldering  the  musket  after  John 
had  loaded  it;  nor  did  Natty  Bumpo  ever  scan  the  dis- 
tance for  sign  of  Mingo  keener  than  my  eyes  penetrated 
each  bush  and  thicket  for  game.  At  last  I  saw  it!  We 
were  in  a  road  between  two  rail  fences,  and  the  game  was 
in  plain  sight  a  few  feet  beyond  a  fence.  Slowly  I  crept 
up  after  John  had  cocked  the  gun  until  the  fence  offered 
a  rest,  and  the  game  appeared  unconscious — a  tribute  to 
my  cautious  approach.  Surely  I  was  destined  to  be  a 
mighty  hunter!  Be  still,  my  heart,  your  beating  may 
destroy  my  aim!  The  game  was  fully  ten  feet  from  the 
muzzle  and  deliberation  was  necessary.  A  long  sighting 
of  the  gun,  and  the  trigger  was  pulled.  "Hurrah !  I  killed 
him!  I  killed  him!"  and  jumping  the  fence  I  picked  up 
what  had  been  a  beautiful  little  summer  yellowbird  which 
had  been  picking  the  seed  from  a  thistle-top,  wholly  un- 
conscious of  danger,  but  now  a  stringy  mass  of  flesh,  bone 
and  feathers.  Reviewing  this  feat  in  more  mature  life,  it 
looks  this  way:  "If  some  kind-hearted  man  had  then  ap- 
peared and  taken  that  gun  and  broken  it  on  the  fence, 
and  then  whaled  me  with  the  ramrod,  he  might  have 
taught  me  that  the  life  of  that  little  bird  was  as  valuable 
to  him,  and  perhaps  to  the  world,  as  my  own,  and  it  had 
been  killed  to  serve  no  useful  purpose.  Oh!  ye  unthink- 
ing fathers  who  use  guns  for  what  we  call  legitimate 
sport,  do  not  give  your  boy  a  gun.  A  boy  is  a  savage. 


34  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

I  was  one — an  unthinking  savage,  who  would  take  life 
without  other  reason  than  the  pleasure  of  taking  it.  Re- 
member this :  You  can  carry  a  gun  all  day  without  shoot- 
ing anything  except  what  you  consider  game;  but  a  boy 
is  bloodthirsty,  and  his  desire  to  kill  is  at  once  intensified 
when  the  means  are  at  hand.  As  a  boy  I  did  my  share 
of  killing  every  living  thing  I  saw,  whether  of  use  to  me 
or  not,  and  most  boys  will  do  the  same.  Once  I  wrote: 
"Don't  give  a  boy  a  gun  until  he  is  ninety  years  old,  and 
then  fit  him  out  and  tell  him  to  shoot  at  every  swallow, 
bat  or  chipmunk  that  he  may  meet."  Bless  me,  how  I 
have  preached  over  that  little  yellowbird ! 

John  could  bwild  bird  cages,  and  in  the  spring  we 
would  wade  through  the  wet  grass  of  the  meadows  to  trap 
bobolinks,  which  we  sold.  He  was  most  successful  in 
rearing  robins,  thrushes  and  other  young  birds  taken 
from  the  nest,  while  most  boys  lost  theirs.  Later  we  used 
to  shoot  wild  pigeons  in  the  spring  and  fall  flights,  and 
with  our  old  musket  would  bring  back  from  a  dozen  to  a 
hundred  birds  in  a  day,  with  an  occasional  snipe,  squirrel 
or  rabbit.  In  winter  we  set  spring  poles  and  box  traps 
for  rabbits,  and  within  four  years  from  our  first  fishing 
scrape  we  knew  the  whole  country  within  a  radius  of  ten 
miles  from  Greenbush  on  the  east  side  of  the  river.  My 
father  was  a  stern,  strict  business  man,  at  that  time  part 
owner  in,  and  Albany  agent  of,  the  Eckford  line  of  tow- 
boats,  having  three  steamboats  and  many  barges  plying 
to  New  York,  for  then  the  canal  boats  came  no  further 
east  than  Albany.  Thirty  years  later,  when  John  Atwood 
was  dead,  father  told  me  that  he  once  put  John  in  charge 
of  one  of  his  barges ;  but  he  would  not  attend  to  business, 
and  he  had  to  discharge  him  and  then  give  him  a  subordi- 
nate place.  "Confound  him,"  said  father,  "he  has  no 
sense  of  responsibility;  he  is  sober  and  capable,  but  would 


JOHN    AT  WOOD.  35 

just  as  soon  be  a  deckhand  as  to  be  captain."  He  had 
John's  measure  to  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  John  worked 
because  he  was  forced  to  do  it;  if  by  diligently  applying 
himself  for  a  year  he  could  attain  a  competency,  he  would 
have  said,  "I  would  rather  go  a-fishmV 

I  have  said  that  John  was  a  long-legged  boy.  He  was 
also  a  very  quiet  fellow — never  in  any  boyish  fights  or 
troubles.  These  qualities  commended  him  to  Mr.  Charles 
Crouch,  a  harness-maker  and  superintendent  of  the  Meth- 
odist Sunday-school,  and  John  was  in  demand  for  the 
May  anniversary  to  carry  the  centre  pole  of  the  banner, 
while  two  shorter  boys  steadied  the  corners  with  cord  and 
tassel.  "Jine  the  Sunday-school,"  said  John  to  me;  "I'll 
get  you  to  hold  a  corner  of  the  banner,  and  we  will  get  the 
first  whack  at  the  refreshments  when  we  stop  in  Albany." 
I  "jined,"  and  at  the  first  meeting  there  was  a  pathetic 
appeal  for  funds  for  missionaries,  and  I  chipped  in  the 
only  sixpence  I  had,  and  which  John  and  I  had  figured  to 
spend  in  this  way:  six  fish-hooks  at  Coshy  Lansing's,  2 
cents;  ten  knots  of  blue-fish  line  at  Tom  Simmond's,  2 
cents;  lead  at  Pop  Huyler's  blacksmith  shop,  2  cents. 
"And  you  went  and  threw  that  to  the  heathen,"  said  John. 
"Who  are  the  heathen?"  he  asked.  "What  do  you  care 
about  the  heathen  that  you  give  'em  your  last  cent?  I 
thought  you  had  some  sense !  Now  we've  got  to  make  a 
raise  to  get  some  fishin'  tackle  in  the  mornin'  just  because 
you  are  a  blamed  fool !  I  only  go  to  Sunday-school  just 
before  anniversary  so  as  to  get  in  on  the  refreshments; 
they  don't  get  no  sixpence  out  of  me.  Why,  them  heathen 
is  all  right;  they're  satisfied  to  be  heathen,  an'  I'm  willin'." 
I  had  done  wrong  and  felt  abashed  in  the  presence  of  a 
superior  mind,  and  to-day  I  regret  the  donation  of  that 
coin,  for  John's  closing  argument  is  good. 

The  "nut  orchard"  lay  just  out  of  the  village  and  con- 


36  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

sisted  of  something  like  a  hundred  trees  of  shell-bark 
hickory,  straight  of  stem  and  tall.  It  belonged  to  Glen 
Van  Rensselaer,  a  man  of  middle  age  then,  who  watched  it 
as  well  as  he  could  in  the  nut  season ;  but  we  boys  always 
had  a  sentinel  out  when  foraging,  and  his  shabby  old  silk 
hat  in  the  distance  was  a  signal  to  gather  the  plunder  and 
leave,  in  order  to  avoid  confiscation  of  the  results  of  our 
labor.  There  had  not  been  frost  enough  to  drop  the  nuts, 
and  several  of  us  who  were  strong  and  active  climbed  the 
trees  and  shook  the  limbs  while  smaller  boys  gathered 
the  nuts.  A  sentinel  had  just  called,  "Here  comes  Glen!" 
when  there  was  a  scream  and  a  thud,  and  a  poor  little 
Irish  boy,  named  Ryan,  was  lying  on  his  back.  We  were 
crying  around  him  when  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  arrived  on 
a  run  to  catch  us.  The  boy's  head  was  bleeding  and  his 
brain  protruding,  but  he  breathed.  We  gave  him  water, 
and  a  passing  hand-car  on  the  railroad  took  him  down  to 
John  Morris'  rope-walk,  where  his  people  lived.  He  died 
next  day.  Most  of  the  boys  were  shy  of  the  nut  orchard 
that  fall.  The  place  is  now  filled  with  cottages,  but  the 
name  is  retained.  The  "Indian  orchard"  is  also  gone, 
and  not  an  apple  tree  is  left  to  hold  the  nest  of  a  flying- 
squirrel  or  a  woodpecker. 

West  of  the  nut  orchard  some  acres  of  pasture  were 
plentifully  sprinkled  with  hawthorn  bushes,  which,  by  the 
way,  were  called  "thorn-apple  bushes,"  and  among  these 
were  many  of  the  big  paper  nests  of  the  bald-faced  hornet. 
What  fun  it  was,  with  John  as  the  leader,  to  advance  in 
line,  a  cedar  bush  in  the  left  elbow  and  as  many  stones  as 
the  forearm  would  hold  against  the  body  and  a  big  stone 
in  the  right  hand.  "Fire!"  cried  John,  and  the  stones 
flew  in  rapid  succession;  and  when  all  were  gone  the 
enemy  was  upon  us.  Then  how  we  retreated,  swinging 
the  bushes  about  our  heads,  and  how  an  occasional  yell 


JOHN   ATWOOD.  37 

would  announce  the  wounded!  Fun?  It  was  the  very 
height  of  fun,  with  its  spice  of  danger,  without  which 
some  one  has  said  there  is  no  sport.  Those  who  know 
the  bald-faced  hornet  know  that  he  is  as  swift  as  a  hum- 
ming-bird and  carries  a  poniard  that  for  penetration  and 
venom  discounts  a  bumblebee  or  any  other  stinger  with 
wings,  and  this  reminds  me :  John  Atwood  and  I  had  been 
away  beyond  Bath  after  berries,  when  we  passed  a  house 
that  stood  only  a  few  feet  from  the  road.  In  front,  just 
inside  the  picket  fence,  stood  a  tall  pear  tree,  well  loaded. 
'Them's  nice  pears,"  said  John,  disdaining  all  grammat- 
ical rules;  "le's  have  some."  A  study  of  the  situation 
showed  that  I  could  easily  mount  the  tree,  shake  it,  and 
drop  about  ten  feet  in  the  road,  and  if  the  people  in  the 
house  were  aroused  John  would  be  off  with  what  pears  he 
could  get  outside  the  fence.  I  shook.  Hard,  burning 
things  struck  my  face,  and  I  saw  the  nest  of  a  colony  of 
bald-faced  hornets  within  a  foot  of  my  head.  Something 
dropped — it  was  I,  and  I  dropped  running.  Oh,  the  agony 
of  eleven  stings  on  head,  face  and  neck,  and  the  swollen 
face  of  a  boy  whom  his  mother  did  not  know  an  hour 
later!  Days  in  bed  and  a  doctor  seem  a  trifle  now.  The 
pears  were  not  good  and  John  Atwood  did  not  get  a  sting. 
To-day,  in  1896,  it  seems  as  if  it  was  my  mission  to  volun- 
teer if  there  were  hard  knocks  to  be  got,  while  some  other 
fellow  got  the  pears.  But  this  is  a  most  common  case, 
and  we  see  that  same  sort  of  a  fellow  every  day ;  and  in  the 
economy  of  nature  he  is  a  necessity  to  the  fellow  who 
gets  the  pears  without  the  stings. 

John  taught  me  how  to  snare  the  brook  suckers  with  a 
noose  of  copper  wire  on  the  end  of  a  pole.  Brass  wire 
was  too  stiff,  he  said,  and  horsehair  was  not  stiff  enough. 
We  would  get  above  the  fish  and  drift  the  open  loop  so  as 
to  inclose  him,  and  when  it  was  about  his  middle  a  smart 


38  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

jerk  landed  him  on  the  bank.  If  the  current  took  the 
snare  one  side  and  the  fish  was  not  disturbed  we  would  try 
it  over. 

Once  we  walked  down  the  track  of  the  Boston  Rail- 
road to  Kinderhook  Lake  to  fish  for  pickerel  through  the 
ice,  after  planning  the  campaign  for  weeks,  and  we  carried 
knapsacks  filled  with  camping  goods  of  more  or  less  util- 
ity. We  got  a  fish,  and  took  a  rabbit  and  three  grouse 
from  the  snares  of  some  poacher,  and  had  a  good  time,  all 
of  which  was  written  up  for  Forest  and  Stream  of  January 
3, 1889,  as  a  "Christmas  Reminiscence."  The  great  won- 
der to  me  then  and  now  was  where  John  learned  all  the 
mysteries  which  he  unfolded  to  me.  He  never  told  this, 
and  perhaps  his  air  of  mystery  helped  to  magnify  his 
knowledge.  He  did  not  consort  with  Port  Tyler,  the 
local  Natty  Bumpo,  who  lived  by  rod,  gun  and  traps ;  for 
Port  was  a  solitary  man,  and  later,  when  I  was  taken  as 
an  occasional  companion  by  Port,  he  once  said:  "John 
Atwood  can't  stick  to  one  thing  nor  one  place  long 
enough  to  do  anything  at  hunting ;  he  runs  all  over,  and, 
durn  him!  he  spoiled  some  good  pa'tridge  ground  for  me 
once."  This  remark  was  a  little  foggy,  but  the  impres- 
sion was  that  John  had  interfered  with  some  fences  and 
snares  that  Porter  had  set;  but  it  was  only  an  impression, 
for  no  more  was  said.  Perhaps  the  snares  that  we  took 
the  grouse  from  were  Port's!  Port's  remark  fitted  John 
in  other  respects  than  hunting.  A  job  in  John  Ruyter's 
tannery,  grinding  bark,  in  Ring's  "white  mill,"  or  in  Her- 
rick's  distillery,  feeding  cattle,  was  not  kept  long.  My 
father's  estimate  of  him  was  a  just  one,  but  of  the  boys 
that  I  knew  in  youth  few  have  a  warmer  spot  in  my  mem- 
ory than  John  Atwood. 

Among  the  boys  of  Greenbush  was  one  named  Philip 
Spencer,  who  came  from  Hudson,  and  at  one  time  was  a 


JOHN    ATWOOD. 


39 


schoolmate  of  my  oldest  brother,  Harleigh.  His  father 
was  the  Secretary  of  War  in  President  Tyler's  Cabinet  in 
1841.  Young  Spencer  had  a  copy  of  "The  Pirates'  Own 
Book,"  and  left  it  with  one  of  the  village  boys  with  the 
remark,  "Keep  this  until  you  hear  that  I  am  a  pirate;"  and 
through  his  father  he  was  appointed  midshipman  in  the 
Navy  in  November,  1841.  He  planned  a  mutiny  on  the 
U.  S.  brig  Somers,  was  discovered,  and  with  two  others 
was  tried  by  summary  court-martial  and  hanged  at  the 
yardarm  on  December  I,  1842.  This  book  passed  around 
among  the  boys  of  the  village  for  years,  until  John  At- 
wood  loaned  it  to  me.  It  had  pictures  of  heroic  pirates, 
with  belts  well  stuffed  with  pistols,  boarding  merchant- 
men and  putting  the  crew  to  the  sword  or  making  them 
walk  the  plank,  and  it  had  in  it  Spencer's  autograph  and 
newspaper  slips  of  his  execution.  My  mother  found  it  in 
my  trunk,  and  after  making  me  tell  where  I  got  it,  took  it 
to  Mrs.  Atwood  with  the  request  that  no  more  books  of 
that  character  be  loaned  to  her  son.  John  said:  "It  was  a 
fool  book,  anyway,  and  there  was  no  fun  in  sinking  ships 
and  killing  people."  And  here  again  we  can  agree  with 
John. 

An  old  darkey  who  had  been  a  cook  for  my  father  in 
his  young  days,  when  he  was  a  sloop  captain  on  the  Hud- 
son, had  smallpox,  and  father  fitted  up  a  room  for  him  in 
the  barn,  and  John  Atwood  volunteered  to  attend  him, 
and  stayed  by  him  until  he  was  out  of  danger.  As  I  have 
said,  John  may  not  have  been  a  good  boy,  but  he  was  not 
a  bad  one.  Idle,  shiftless  and  lazy?  Yes,  if  you  will,  but 
that  is  a  combination  to  get  much  out  of  life,  in  a  way. 
John  may  have  been  "shiftless,"  but  legs  that  followed 
him  on  a  day's  tramp  would  deny  the  charge  of  laziness. 
It  would  be  fairer  to  say  that  he  could  only  apply  himself 
to  things  which  interested  him.  That  is  my  latter-day 


40  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

summing  up  of  his  character.  Men  who  think  that  the 
accumulation  of  money  by  continuous  industry  is  the 
main  thing  in  life  have  always  decried  those  who  did  not 
follow  their  precepts  and  examples,  but  there  are  other 
standards  of  life  than  those  of  old  Ben  Franklin,  who 
thought  that  a  boy  or  man  should  work  like  Gehenna  and 
never  spend  a  cent.  John  Atwood  followed  the  bent  of 
his  inclination,  and  was  happy  when  he  did  not  have  to 
work  at  uncongenial  labor;  yet  who  could  be  more  ener- 
getic at  removing  a  stone  heap  and  digging  out  a  rabbit? 

As  he  approached  manhood  the  necessity  of  labor  that 
was  more  remunerative  gradually  pressed  upon  him,  and 
the  day  came  when  John  had  to  leave  the  birds  and  the 
fish  in  their  haunts  and  take  a  place  as  fireman  on  a  rail- 
road locomotive.  The  engine  which  startled  the  wood 
duck  from  the  lily  pads  had  to  be  fed  with  great  pieces  of 
wood,  and  the  puffing  monster  drowned  the  song  of  the 
bobolink  and  the  whistle  of  the  quail.  John  never  could 
have  loved  such  a  noisy,  obnoxious  thing.  One  winter 
day  about  thirty  years  ago  his  engine  stood  at  a  side  track 
at  Poughkeepsie ;  the  boiler  burst,  and  the  mangled  body 
of  John  Atwood  was  thrown  far  out  upon  the  ice  of  the 
river.  As  I  read  the  account  of  it  in  a  distant  land  the 
thought  came :  Who  will  say  to  the  boys,  "A  flock  of  geese 
went  north  yesterday  and  the  fish  ought  to  bite  good 
now,"  or  "The  bluebirds  are  building  in  our  pear  tree  an' 
it's  time  to  go  in  a-swimmin'  "?  Who,  indeed? 

The  geese  have  gone  north  many  times  since,  and  the 
bluebirds  nested  in  their  old  home  until  the  aged  tree 
broke  and  left  only  a  stump,  which  I  saw  last  year  when 
on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  place ;  but  the  poor,  torn  and  shape- 
less thing  which  the  Coroner  took  from  the  ice  no  longer 
notes  the  seasons  by  the  coming  and  the  nesting  of  the 
birds. 


PORTER  TYLER. 

MY  EARLY  TEACHER  OF  WOODCRAFT. 

AT  first  Old  Port  Tyler  was  a  far-off  and  almost 
mythical  person.  He  appeared  vaguely  in  the 
stories  of  older  boys  who  had  really  seen  him,  al- 
ways in  connection  with  fish  and  game.  Garry  Van 
O'Linda  had  seen  him  cross  the  ferry  to  Albany  with  a 
lot  of  rabbits  and  partridges,  and  Charley  Melius  saw  him 
with  a  great  load  of  wild  pigeons ;  but  to  me  he  was  a  mys- 
terious person  who  lived  by  fishing,  shooting  and  trap- 
ping. A  man  rowed  a  light  boat  around  Dow's  Point 
and  John  Atwood  said:  "That's  Old  Port;  he's  been  down 
the  dead  crick  after  snipe,"  and  here  was  the  real  live  man 
at  last,  but  his  mysterious  and  poetical  life  seemed  as  far 
off  as  ever.  A  most  ideal  life  to  me,  and  he  was  at  once 
enthroned  among  my  collection  of  idols,  which  then  in- 
cluded Davy  Crockett,  Daniel  Boone,  Baron  Trenck, 
Natty  Bumpo  and  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden.  These  men 
I  had  not  seen,  but  Port  Tyler  had  passed  Dow's  Point 
before  my  eyes,  and  his  boat  may  have  contained  untold 
numbers  of  snipe  and  countless  fish. 

Gradually  it  was  learned  that  he  was  a  bachelor  and 
lived  alone  near  the  red  mill — "Mechanic  street"  they  call 
it  now;  then  it  was  "up  by  Fred  Aiken's  woods,"  and  they 
said  that  he  had  huts  and  caves  all  over  the  country  and 
lived  in  them  when  he  pleased.  These  stories,  and  the 
fact  that  a  lunatic  named  Asher  Cone  had  a  hut  back  of 
Harrowgate  Spring  and  chased  the  boys  with  a  club  when 
he  saw  them,  added  mystery  and  perhaps  a  bit  of  awe  to 
the  personality  of  Old  Port.  In  my  own  case  this  was 
true,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  I  never  even  hoped  for  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  a  man  whom  I  placed  higher 

41 


42  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

than  the  rulers  of  kingdoms — for  he  was  my  ideal  of  the 
highest  form  of  manhood.  I  may  as  well  say  right  here 
that  this  was  my  ideal  fifteen  years  later,  and  was  lived  up 
to  as  closely  as  possible ;  personal  freedom  from  dictation 
by  others,  a  love  of  nature,  and,  above  all,  a  sense  of  per- 
fect independence,  caused  me  to  cast  civilization  aside, 
and — whisper  it — after  six  years  return,  not  a  prodigal, 
but,  like  him,  with  a  flag  of  truce  in  the  rear,  which  the 
small  boy  terms  "a  letter  in  the  post-office." 

The  pigeons  were  flying  well  one  October  day,  and  I 
had  about  twenty.  They  were  in  scattered  flocks  seeking 
mast,  and  my  neck  was  stiff  from  looking  upward  for 
them.  Often  a  dozen  would  start  from  a  tree  where  none 
was  seen,  and  a  wing  shot  was  not  possible,  if  I  had  been 
capable  of  it.  Resting  on  a  log  and  watching  the  open 
for  a  flight  to  come,  and,  like  Irving' s  skipper,  who  guided 
his  craft  up  the  Hudson,  "thinking  of  nothing  in  the  past, 
the  present  or  the  future,"  I  suddenly  became  aware  that 
a  man  stood  beside  me.  The  leaves  were  damp  from  a 
two  days'  rain,  a  high-hole  was  drumming  away  on  an  old 
stub  near  by,  and  a  couple  of  blue  jays  were  scolding  about 
something — perhaps  about  men — and,  being  intent  on 
watching  for  pigeons  to  come  my  way,  the  whole  com- 
bination favored  a  silent  approach  that  a  falling  shadow 
was  the  first  intimation  of.  The  stranger  said : 

"There's  a  big  flock  feedin'  on  beechnuts  over  there  in 
Teller's  woods,  an'  they  may  come  this  way;  there's  some- 
body just  south  of  'em,  'cause  the  crows  all  left  there  a- 
hollerin'." 

He  was  a  small  man,  rather  thin,  but  wiry,  clothing 
not  noticeable  except  a  little  faded,  a  keen  gray  eye  and 
a  light  double  gun  were  the  first  impressions  made  by  the 
speaker.  For  young  men  it  might  be  well  to  say  that  all 
guns  in  those  days  were  muzzle-loaders,  and  that  the  use 


PORTER    TYLER.  43 

of  single-barrelled  guns  was  so  common  that  the  excep- 
tion was  a  matter  of  remark ;  therefore  the  fact  that  he  car- 
ried a  "double-barrelled  gun"  was  duly  noted.  I  told  him 
that  I  had  been  through  Teller's  woods  an  hour  before, 
but  only  found  a  few  pigeons  there  and  got  but  three  of 
them. 

"The  big  flock  was  down  to  the  crick  for  water,  then," 
said  he,  "and  I  saw  'em  rise  and  go  into  the  woods,  about 
three  or  four  hundred  of  'em  in  the  flock ;  and  they  haven't 
left  yet.  You  can  stay  here  and  get  a  few  shots  if  they 
come  this  way,  as  they  will  be  likely  to  if  that  man  over 
south  of  'em  gets  among  'em.  I'll  work  off  to  the  east'ard 
and  get  beyond  'em  if  that  man  don't  start  'em  first,"  and 
he  moved  off  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  underbrush.  He 
was  a  man  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  the  incident  was 
only  called  to  mind  when,  out  after  rabbits  in  the  winter, 
on  Crehan's  farm  above  the  mill-pond,  in  jumping  a  little 
stream  I  landed  near  a  man  who  was  skinning  a  mink.  It 
was  the  stranger  of  the  pigeon  hunt,  and  instinctively 
came  the  knowledge  that  this  was  the  mysterious  woods- 
man of  whom  so  much  had  been  heard.  To  my  surprise 
he  knew  who  I  was,  and  said:  "Oh,  yes,  I've  often  seen 
you  down  the  crick  and  in  the  woods,  and  when  I  saw  the 
gun  you  carried  I  knew  it  belonged  to  your  brother  Har- 
leigh,  for  he  told  me  that  you  had  it  most  ev'ry  day  when 
you  were  out  of  school." 

This  was  the  first  mink  I  had  ever  seen,  and  I  watched 
the  skinning,  which  went  very  well  until  the  tail  was 
reached,  and  this  could  not  be  skinned  far  because  the 
skin  was  so  tight.  We  talked  until  he  had  finished,  set 
his  steel  trap  and  gathered  his  skins,  and  went  on  with  the 
hides  of  two  minks  and  six  muskrats — a  very  good  morn- 
ing's work.  Truly  he  was  not  now  "mysterious;"  he  was 
no  longer  a  half  mythical  person,  but  a  real,  live  man,  and 


44  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

to  me  a  most  interesting  one,  whom  I  hoped  to  know 
much  better. 

In  the  spring,  perhaps  of  1848  or  '49,  just  after  the  ice 
had  left  the  river  and  the  creeks,  a  party  of  us  boys  went 
down  the  island  creek,  as  we  called  it,  Popskinny,  or  Pop- 
squinea,  as  it  appears  on  maps,  to  fish.  It  was  merely  an 
arm  of  the  river  which  crooked  out  and  in  again,  making 
an  island  some  four  or  five  miles  long,  beginning  a  couple 
of  miles  below  Greenbush.  The  water  was  cold  yet,  but 
the  hardy  yellow  perch  were  astir  and  the  creek  was  full 
of  them.  A  railroad  has  filled  the  creek  in  where  it  crosses 
and  the  water  is  shallow  to-day,  and  but  few  fish  go  in  it 
now.  There  had  been  a  few  perch  and  bullheads  taken 
when  Old  Port  came  rowing  a  light  scow  down  the  creek. 
Some  one  said  that  he  had  gill  nets  for  herring  set  further 
down,  and  this  was  a  way  of  taking  fish  that  I  wanted  to 
see;  so,  when  he  stopped  to  ask,  "What  luck?"  I  got  per- 
mission to  get  in  his  boat  and  go  with  him.  Two  nets, 
each  about  one  hundred  feet  long  and  four  feet  deep,  were 
stretched  across  the  creek,  and  had  been  there  all  night. 
I  helped  raise  them,  and  it  was  such  fun!  To-day  it 
would  not  be  fun ;  we  take  such  different  views  of  a  thing 
at  different  times  of  life.  He  took  perhaps  a  bushel  of 
perch,  half  as  many  suckers  and  some  200  "herrin',"  as 
the  alewife  is  called  up  the  Hudson.  "The  perch  an'  suck- 
ers ain't  worth  much,"  said  he;  "about  ten  cents  a  string 
of  a  dozen  or  fifteen,  accordin'  to  size;  but  the  herrin' 
fetches  $2  per  100  as  early  as  this;  when  they  begin  to 
catch  'em  in  the  river  they  drop  to  half  that  price,  and  by 
May  i  they  are  so  plenty  and  cheap  that  I  don't  bother 
with  'em.  At  this  time,  you  see,  the  people  want  to  eat 
'em  fresh,  and  they're  fine;  but  later  they  are  spawning, 
and  are  only  fit  for  saltin'  down."  This  was  the  financial 
part  of  Port's  herring  fishing.  I  went  in  his  boat  with 


PORTER    TYLER.  45 

him  to  the  nets  many  times,  even  as  late  as  1868,  when  he 
was  a  man  of  fifty-eight  and  I  of  thirty-five,  for  he  asked 
me  to  his  house  and  I  became  intimate  with  him  from  that 
first  trip  to  the  nets. 

"It's  a  cur'us  thing,"  he  said  on  one  of  these  trips,  "to 
know  how  the  herrin'  get  past  these  gill  nets  that  reach 
from  shore  to  shore  and  from  top  to  bottom ;  but  they  do. 
Last  night  I  set  my  two  about  one  hundred  yards  above 
two  of  Cutty  Carson's,  and  when  I  got  through  settin' 
them  there  was  Lon  Crandell  settin'  his  above  mine ;  but 
I'll  get  about  as  many  herrin'  as  they  will,  yet  I  can't  see 
how  the  fish  get  past  the  first  net.  They  don't  jump  'em, 
for  I  have  watched  all  night  to  see  if  they  jump  the  cork- 
line.  As  far  as  that  is  concerned,  I'd  just  as  soon  have 
rny  nets  in  the  middle  as  anywhere  else."  This  is  a  puz- 
zle— a  greater  one  even  than  how  the  shad  get  up  the 
Hudson  past  drifting  gill  nets  and  staked  ones,  to  be 
caught  by  the  seiners  of  the  upper  river;  but  these  do  not 
reach  from  bank  to  bank  and  from  surface  to  bottom,  as 
the  nets  in  the  Popsquinea  did. 

He  it  was  who  first  attracted  my  attention  to  the  breed- 
ing habits  of  fish.  We  were  trolling  minnows  for  pike 
down  this  creek;  the  water  had  fallen  and  left  strings  of 
perch  eggs  hanging  to  the  bushes  above  the  water.  "Por- 
ter," said  I,  for  the  days  were  getting  long  and  permitted 
the  occasional  use  of  his  proper  name,  "there  must  be  mil- 
lions of  perch  eggs  left  to  die  that  way  every  year;  I 
should  suppose  instinct  would  teach  the  fish  not  to  spawn 
high  up  during  a  freshet." 

"Well,  a  yellow  perch  is  a  dull  kind  of  a  fish,  and  don't 
know  as  much  as  a  herrin'.  When  a  flood  comes  and 
covers  all  these  bottom  lands  the  herrin'  go  all  over  them, 
but  the  minute  the  water  begins  to  fall  they  scoot  for  the 
creek  and  seem  to  find  the  ditches  leading  to  it;  and  they 


46  MEN  I  "HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

don't  spawn  on  the  flats,  but  among  drift  stuff;  their  eggs 
are  separate,  and  stick  fast  to  what  they  touch.  These 
strings  of  perch  eggs  are  not  fast  to  the  limbs,  but  are 
just  hung  over  'em  with  both  ends  down.  I  have  put  lots 
of  'em  back  in  the  water.  Maybe  it's  of  no  use,  for  there's 
plenty  of  'em  and  they  ain't  o'  much  account.  It's  cur'us, 
though,  to  watch  'em  spawn.  I've  seen  'em  spawn  in  my 
nets  when  I've  been  watching  at  night  with  a  lantern. 
When  they  are  first  laid  they  come  out  small,  and  there's 
nothin'  in  'em  until  the  he  one  goes  over  'em,  and  then 
they  swell  up  as  big  a  mass  as  the  fish  that  laid  'em." 

When  we  came  to  his  net  he  showed  me  perch  nearly 
ripe,  and  stripped  a  ripe  male.  I  took  perch  eggs  that 
day — in  1867 — and  hatched  them  in  the  State  Geological 
rooms  on  State  street,  Albany,  by  permission  of  Dr.  Hall, 
the  curator,  and  through  my  intimacy  with  this  observant 
field  naturalist  I  became  a  fishculturist  and  made  it  a  life 
work. 

There  was  a  gap  of  some  nine  years  in  my  intercourse 
with  Porter,  as  I  spent  the  years  1854-60  in  the  West  and 
parts  of  1862-65  in  the  army;  but  the  old  man  gave  me  a 
warm  welcome,  "For,"  said  he,  "I  liked  you  because  you 
took  so  much  interest  in  all  the  live  things,  even  if  they 
were  no-account  things."  I  never  saw  him  after  1868. 
He  died  at  his  home,  which  he  owned,  in  1882,  aged 
seventy-two  years.  Some  of  the  Albany  shooting  men 
thought  him  an  old  poacher  because  he  sold  much  of  his 
game,  and  they  said  that  he  snared  partridges  (ruffed 
grouse);  and  it  may  be  that  he  did;  I  can't  say;  but  to  me 
he  was  a  kind  friend  and  instructor  of  my  boyhood  in 
things  of  interest,  if  not  of  usefulness.  He  was  one  of 
those  real  outdoor  observers,  and  the  kind  of  naturalist 
with  whom  the  modes  of  feeding  and  habits  of  birds, 
beasts  and  fishes  take  the  first  place,  while  of  their  struc- 


PORTER    TYLER. 


4-7 


ture  he  knew  little  more  than  an  outside  view  of  fur,  fin 
and  feather  gave  him ;  yet  his  knowledge  of  many  things 
was  far  beyond  what  a  scientific  education  could  have 
given  him.  Not  that  I  wish  to  underrate  such  an  educa- 
tion, or  to  speak  slightingly  of  it,  for  it  is  of  very  great 
value ;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  with  most  of  our  biologists  struc- 
ture and  comparative  anatomy  are  the  beginning  and  end 
of  their  knowledge  of  animal  life,  and  a  day  spent  with 
Port  Tyler  would  have  opened  up  a  new  chapter  to  them. 
Such  a  day  might  also  have  been  of  use  to  that  class  of 
sportsmen  who  are  mere  butchers  and  measure  the  pleas- 
ures of  an  outing  by  the  amount  of  slaughter  they  have 
done,  and  whose  only  knowledge  of  nature  is  where  cer- 
tain kinds  of  game  could  be  found  at  certain  seasons. 

A  man  who,  when  out  shooting,  would  stop,  lean  his 
gun  against  a  tree  and  spend  half  an  hour  watching  a  little 
chipmunk  dig  his  hole,  has  higher  tastes  than  a  mere 
game  butcher,  and  Port  Tyler  did  that  one  day  when  I 
ran  across  him  in  the  Indian  Orchard.  "It's  cur'us  how 
he  does  it,"  he  remarked,  "and  because  you  don't  find  the 
dirt  piled  up  about  the  hole  they  say  he  begins  to  dig  at 
the  bottom;  your  brother  Harleigh  told  me  that,  but  I 
think  he  was  joking."  This  last  by  way  of  apology,  for 
his  sense  of  humor  was  not  keen,  and  he  did  not  always 
realize  the  fact  that  some  people  would  trifle  with  such 
questions,  and  that  his  innocent  and  unsuspecting  nature 
invited  just  such  remarks  as  the  above.  "That  little  cuss 
is  cute,"  he  said;  "he  leaves  a  clean  hole  between  two 
roots,  with  no  sign  that  he  has  been  diggin'.  But  Har- 
leigh is  wrong;  he  begins  at  the  top  and  carries  the  dirt 
away  in  his  cheeks,  and  drops  it  when  he  gets  far  enough 
so  that  it  won't  attract  attention.  Maybe  when  he  gets 
down  he  can  pack  it  one  side  into  some  hollow  and  save 
labor.  He  ran  off  when  you  came,  and  there  he  is  on 


48  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

that  fence  there  by  Cassin's  house,  jerkin'  his  tail  because 
he  is  mad  at  you  for  coming  here  to  stop  his  work."  He 
knew  that  the  little  ground  squirrel  was  a  "chipmunk" 
and  stored  its  food  under  the  protecting  roots  of  trees,  and 
by  observation  had  learned  how  it  dug  a  hole  without 
leaving  outside  evidence  of  it,  even  though  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  its  anatomy. 

Port's  great  fur  harvest  sometimes  came  in  midwinter, 
but  always  in  early  spring,  by  a  "January  thaw,"  and 
surely  in  April.  The  ice  never  melts  in  the  Hudson  about 
Albany,  but  is  broken  up  by  floods  when  the  snow  melts 
in  the  upper  country  or  in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  and  often 
goes  out  in  great  fields,  nearly  two  feet  thick,  which  crowd 
on  top  of  each  other  and  break  by  the  overhanging 
weight.  Grounding  on  shallows  just  above  Castleton, 
which  bar  in  the  river  the  Dutch  knew  as  the  "Over- 
slaugh," the  water  is  dammed  and  floods  the  lower  parts 
of  Albany  so  that  boats  can  often  float  up  Broadway  as 
far  as  State  street,  and  all  the  flats  and  bottom  lands  on 
both  sides  of  the  river  are  several  feet  under  water,  often 
for  weeks  or  until  the  ice  dam  breaks.  The  muskrats  of 
that  region  have  been  so  accustomed  to  this  state  of 
things  that  they  rarely  build  houses,  as  in  other  parts  of 
the  country,  although  I  have  seen  an  occasional  house 
there;  but  houses  being  of  no  use  in  such  events,  the  in- 
stinct to  build  has  been  nearly  lost.  When  the  freshet 
comes  the  musquash  is  drowned  out  of  the  holes  in  the 
bank  and  seeks  the  piles  of  flotsam  to  hide  among.  Every 
gun  in  Greenbush  and  on  the  hills  below  is  brought  out, 
and  everything  in  the  shape  of  a  boat  that  can  be  had  is 
put  into  commission  for  the  slaughter,  and  the  roar  of 
successive  guns  reminds  a  veteran  of  a  skirmish  line. 
Many  men  are  shooting  for  profit,  Old  Port  among  them, 
but  a  larger  number  are  out  for  fun  and  pile  the  rodents 


PORTER    TYLER.  49 

in  their  boat  to  give  to  some  one  who  will  want  them.  In 
the  early  '5o's  there  would  be  found  a  number  who  were 
shooting  for  fun  and  saving  the  animals  for  Porter. 
Among  these  were  Colonel  David  A.  Teller,  James  Mil- 
ler, Reuben  and  Ira  Wood,  Harleigh  Mather,  Godfrey 
Rhodes,  Bill  Fairchild,  myself  and  about  a  dozen  others. 
The  result  was  that  Port  had  to  hire  help  to  skin  the  ani- 
mals while  he  would  stretch  the  hides. 

At  this  late  day,  with  a  memory  hardly  worth  a  hill  of 
beans,  it  is  not  safe  to  make  an  estimate  of  the  slaughter 
of  muskrats  during  a  freshet  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
Hudson  River,  between  Dow's  Point,  which  is  less  than 
two  miles  below  Albany,  and  Castleton,  which  is  nearly 
ten  miles  from  the  city.  I  had  to  go  to  school,  sure,  for 
my  father  knew  well  that  only  an  iron  hand  could  keep 
me  there,  and  he  had  it;  but  two  days  in  the  week  I 
claimed  for  rest  and  recreation.  The  latter  I  had,  while 
the  former  was  not  needed.  It  was  poor  shooting  when 
I  did  not  pick  up  thirty  muskrats  in  a  day  during  a  freshet, 
and  men  have  killed  as  high  as  200  in  a  day.  Perhaps 
with  about  fifty  gunners  there  was  an  average  of  thirty 
musquash  each,  which  would  count  up  to  over  10,000  in  a 
week!  It  seems  too  big  a  figure  for  eight  miles  on  one 
side  of  a  river,  but  the  flats  or  bottoms  were  from  a  half 
to  three-quarters  of  a  mile  wide,  rich  with  alluvial  deposit 
from  each  overflow  and  rank  with  vegetation  along  the 
river,  the  island  creek  and  the  ditches  which  drained  the 
bottoms  into  the  creek ;  also  our  sociable  little  mammal  is 
largely  a  vegetable  feeder.  With  donations  from  his 
friends,  in  addition  to  his  own  gun,  Port  Tyler  one  year 
marketed  over  2,000  muskrat  skins,  a  few  obtained  by 
winter  trapping,  but  mainly  shot  during  the  freshets.  Just 
what  these  were  worth  at  that  time  is  forgotten;  all  were 
not  "prime"  because  of  the  shot  holes,  but  they  brought 


50  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

enough  to  keep  this  man  of  simple  tastes  until  the  fall  sea- 
son, even  if  the  spring  run  of  "herring"  were  not  consid- 
ered, and  in  addition  to  the  winter's  fur  there  was  always 
a  few  mink  and  other  skins,  for  he  was  not  above  taking  in 
a  prowling  cat,  as  he  said:  "A  common  cat  skin  is  not 
worth  much,  but  when  I've  killed  her  the  skin  might  as 
well  be  saved;  and  I  kill  'em  on  principle,  for  they  kill 
nesting  partridges,  rabbits,  and  every  young  song  bird 
they  can  get  hold  of." 

Port  once  said  to  me  that  a  game  dealer,  hotel  keeper, 
or  some  other  man,  wanted  him  to  shoot  reedbirds  in  the 
fall.  "Now,  what  do  you  suppose  he  called  reedbirds?" 
he  asked.  "They're  bobolinks  in  their  fall  gray  coat — 
and  that's  goin'  too  far.  I've  shot  blackbirds  and  snow- 
birds for  market,  and  while  I  was  a-shootin'  'em  I  thought 
it  was  small  business  compared  to  shootin'  quail,  pa'tridge 
an'  rabbits;  but  when  it  comes  to  shootin'  bobolinks, 
which  makes  the  medders  ring  with  song  in  the  spring, 
I'll  be  durned  ef  I'll  do  it!  You've  off  en  seen  a  he  bobo- 
link fly  toward  his  mate  an'  then  set  his  wings  all  a-trem- 
ble  as  he  told  her  that  she  was  the  best  she  bobolink  he 
ever  see — and  the  music!  I've  off  en  sot  and  listened  to 
him  when  I  ought  to  be  goin'  on  to  my  herrin'  nets  in  the 
spring.  Of  course  the  bobolink  gets  gray  in  the  fall,  an' 
he  looks  just  like  a  she  one,  but  that's  his  natur',  an'  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  shoot  him  for  market.  I'd  rather  hear  him 
sing,  an',  besides,  he's  too  small  to  eat." 

I  have  always  held  this  opinion,  that  it  is  a  sin  to  kill 
this  songster  for  the  morsel  of  meat  it  has,  and  have  con- 
sistently refused  to  touch  "reedbirds"  when  they  have 
been  served  at  dinners.  The  bird  is  nearly  extinct  in  the 
meadows  which  it  once  enlivened,  and  during  a  life  of 
thirteen  years  on  Long  Island  I  have  not  seen  a  bobolink. 
Guns,  guns,  guns !  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be  well  if 


PORTER    TYLER.  51 

gunpowder  had  never  been  made.  The  true  game  birds 
hold  their  own  in  many  places  fairly  well — only  men  of 
intelligence  can  find  them — but  in  the  older  settled  re- 
gions the  redheaded  woodpecker  has  gone  and  the  brown 
thrasher  and  bobolink  have  almost  disappeared.  The 
reason  is  a  combination  of  gun  and  boy. 

Game  that  Port  didn't  sell  he  cooked  for  small  parties 
at  his  house.  He  was  a  good  cook,  and  when  it  was 
known  that  he  had  a  few  ruffed  grouse  on  hand  a  supper 
party  would  be  organized  at  once,  and  he  would  furnish 
everything  but  the  liquors.  He  was  a  very  temperate 
man  and  seldom  used  either  wines  or  stronger  stuff,  and 
said  that  he  did  not  care  to  sell  it  even  if  he  had  license  to 
do  so;  but  the  jolly  old  cocks  who  were  fond  of  his  game 
suppers  did  not  allow  themselves  to  suffer  on  this  account. 
I  attended  only  one  of  these  affairs,  as  I  was  rather  young 
for  that  sort  of  thing;  but  I  had  been  out  after  grouse  and 
had  three,  which  I  gave  to  Porter,  whom  I  met  near  home. 
The  cause  of  this  generosity  was  because  I  did  not  dare  to 
take  them  home,  having  surreptitiously  borrowed  a  fine 
double  gun  from  my  father  which  I  was  forbidden  to  take 
or  handle;  but,  as  he  never  used  it,  he  often  loaned  it  to 
me  without  his  knowledge.  Under  these  conditions  Por- 
ter got  the  birds  and  I  was  invited  to  the  feast.  General 
Martin  Miller,  of  the  State  militia,  presided;  in  times  when 
Greenbush  was  at  peace  with  all  foreign  countries  he  kept 
a  grocery  store  and  was  commonly  known  as  Mat.  Miller; 
Tobias  Teller,  Bill  Fairchild,  Godfrey  Rhodes,  Port  and 
I — fourteen  of  us  in  all,  six  men  and  eight  grouse.  After 
the  last  bone  had  been  polished  Bill  Fairchild  was 
thoughtful,  and  as  he  was  sucking  away  on  the  backbone 
of  a  grouse,  trying  to  extract  the  very  last  of  the  bitter  that 
is  so  dear  to  the  lover  of  all  kinds  of  grouse,  he  asked: 

"Porter,  did  you  ever  eat  a  muskrat?" 


52  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"Yes,  I've  eat  'em  many  times,  an'  they're  right  good, 
too,  if  you  know  how  to  dress  an'  cook  'em,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  what  else  is  good,  but  you  may  not  believe  it;  that's 
young  quawks ;  the  old  ones  are  fishy,  but  the  young  ones 
are  not,  though  they  are  fed  on  fish,  an'  I'll  get  you  up 
a " 

"But  about  the  muskrat,  Porter;  I've  eaten  him,  and  I 
don't  want  any  more." 

"Wa'n't  it  good?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Bill;  "you  know  old  Dandaraw,  the 
C'anuck  Frenchman  who  keeps  the  little  drunkery  just 
north  of  the  B.  &  A.  passenger  houses?  Of  course  you 
do.  Well,  after  the  spring  freshet  I  dropped  into  Dan- 
daraw's,  and  we  were  talking  about  shooting  muskrats. 
Dandaraw  said:  'You  shoot-a  da  mus'rat,  hey,  Bill?'  'Oh, 
yes,'  said  I;  'sometimes,  just  for  fun,  and  I  give  'em  to 
Port  Tyler,  and  he  skins  'em  for  market.' 

"  'You  doan  eat-a  da  mus'rat,  hey,  Bill?' 

"  'No,  I  don't  eat  'em;  they  smell  a  little  too  musky  for 
me.' 

"  'Oh,  Bill,  you  mus'  eat  a-heem;  you  doan'  know  how 
good-a  he  ees.' 

"I  asked  him  how  he  cooked  'em,  just  for  curiosity, 
for  I  had  no  idea  that  the  things  were  eatable,  and  I  only 
wanted  to  hear  him  chirp.  He  said : 

"  'First  you  skeen  da  mus'rat  an'  clean  him  fine;  den 
you  bile  him  a  leetle;  den  you  fry  him  an'  you  eat  him, 
an'  (smack)  o-o-o!' 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  "I  skeen-a  da  mus'rat  an'  I  clean 
him  fine;  den  I  bile  him  a  leetle;  den  I  fry  him  an'  I  eat 
him.  I  could  do  the  whole  trick  except  the  (smack)  an' 
the  o-o-o.  I  could  eat  a  muskrat  on  a  pinch,  but  for 
choice  would  prefer  one  of  these  partridges  that  Port 
serves  up  so  good." 


PORTER    TYLER.  53 

Port  thought  that  he  could  serve  up  some  nice  fat 
young  muskrats  so  they  would  fill  Dandaraw's  descrip- 
tion, and  even  Bill  Fairchild  would  smack  his  lips  loudly 
and  say  "O-o-o,"  and  it  was  agreed  to  try  it  a  few  weeks 
later;  but  I  missed  the  feast. 

Tyler  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  could  suc- 
cessfully hunt  woodcock  without  a  dog.  He  seemed  to 
know  just  where  to  look  for  them  and  how  to  find  them, 
and  said  that  he  did  not  want  to  be  bothered  with  a  dog. 
An  English  gunner  and  dog  fancier  lived  in  that  lower 
end  of  Albany  called  Bethlehem — perhaps  the  same  dis- 
trict now  known  as  Kenwood.  They  called  him  Ken 
King,  his  front  name  being  Kenneth,  and  I  bought  a  bitch 
puppy  from  him,  the  mother  being  a  pointer  of  famous 
stock  and  the  father  the  then  celebrated  setter  Dash,  the 
crack  setter  of  the  time,  owned  by  Mr.  James  Bleecker. 
By  the  way,  this  Nell  of  mine  never  showed  the  slightest 
trace  of  setter  blood,  and  she  went  to  Michigan  afterward, 
and  was  the  mother  of  many  good  pointers  with  never  a 
sign  of  setter  blood. 

This  was  in  1853,  and  my  people  having  moved  to 
Albany  there  was  no  place  for  Nell,  and  Port  agreed  to 
take  care  of  her.  I  wanted  him  to  work  her  on  snipe  and 
woodcock,  but  he  said:  "A  dog  is  all  right  for  men  who 
can't  find  birds  without  one,  but  they  are  little  use  to  me; 
I  like  to  find  'em  myself,  and  on  the  old  grounds  that  I've 
hunted  for  years  I  know  the  best  feedin'  spots  in  every 
marsh  or  cornfield,  and  if  the  birds  are  there  they'll  not  be 
far  from  these  spots."  This  is  a  strange  statement,  but 
the  fact  that  this  man  lived  up  to  it  and  shot  both  snipe 
and  woodcock  for  market  without  a  dog  can  be  attested 
by  men  now  living  in  Albany  and  Greenbush.  Surely  a 
most  strange  and  interesting  character  was  Old  Port 
Tyler. 


GEORGE   DAWSON. 


MY  FIRST  TROUT. 

ABOUT  1850  my  people  moved  across  the  river  into 
Albany,  and  I  was  a  student  in  the  "Classical  In- 
stitute" of  Professor  Charles  H.  Anthony,  on 
Eagle  street.  Among  the  scholars  was  George  S.  Daw- 
son,  eldest  son  of  George  Dawson,  who  at  that  time  was 
assistant  editor  of  the  Albany  Evening  Journal.  Young 
George  told  his  father  that  I  knew  of  a  good  trout  stream 
down  near  Kinderhook  lake,  and  it  led  to  an  interview. 
Mr.  Dawson  wanted  to  go,  and  we  would  take  an  early 
train  for  Kinderhook  station,  on  the  B.  &  A.  R.  R.,  and  if 
the  distance  was  too  far  to  the  brook  he  would  hire  a 
horse  to  take  the  three  near  the  stream,  for  George  S. 
would  go.  This  seemed  a  reckless  bit  of  extravagance 
to  a  boy  whose  whole  expenditures  for  fishing  had  been 
a  few  pennies  for  hooks  and  lines  and  of  leg  muscle  to  get 
to  the  fishing  places. 

The  only  thing  that  serves  to  fix  the  time  of  year  is  the 
memory  that  pond  lilies  were  in  bloom;  the  cat-tails  were 
just  pushing  up  their  curious  blooms,  and  had  not  burst 
to  scatter  their  seeds,  and  the  black-cap  raspberries  were 
ripe.  It  must  have  been  early  in  July,  for  the  swallows 
were  skimming  the  meadows  and  had  not  begun  to  con- 
gregate on  the  telegraph  wires.  These  things  are  re- 
called by  Mr.  Dawson's  wish  to  take  home  the  pond  lilies, 
our  picking  berries  near  the  railroad  station,  and  young 
Dawson's  doubt  of  my  statement  that  swallows  could 
gather  on  wires  charged  with  electricity.  What  a  thing 

54 


GEORGE    DAW  SON,  55 

is  man's  memory,  and  by  how  slight  a  cord  is  it  tied  to  the 
past!  The  exact  year  is  forgotten,  but  it  was  before  1854, 
probably  three  years  before.  Mr.  Dawson  carried  a  short, 
hand-made  rod  of  some  kind  of  wood,  with  ring  guides, 
the  first  thing  of  the  kind  I  had  seen,  and  that  gave  me 
an  impression  that  he  must  be  a  very  superior  angler,  es- 
pecially as  he  said  that  his  father  had  brought  expensive 
rods  for  trout  fishing  from  Scotland,  but  they  had  been 
lost.  This  was  a  revelation!  "Expensive  rods" — he 
called  them  "rods" — and  the  idea  of  paying  money  for 
such  things  when  we  could  cut  an  alder  pole  and  thought 
it  expensive  to  buy  fish  hooks  and  lines;  but,  like  the 
Irishman's  owl  which  he  had  bought  for  a  parrot,  I  said 
nothing,  "but  kept  up  a  devil  of  a  thinking."  If  money 
had  been  more  plentiful  in  boyish  pockets  it  is  doubtful 
if  its  expenditure  would  have  been  in  the  direction  of  "fish 
poles,"  which  could  be  cut  anywhere  and  thrown  away 
after  use.  This  was  a  bit  of  dilettanteism  in  angling  that 
hardly  seemed  consistent  with  our  primitive  ideas  of  using 
only  those  things  which  nature  furnished,  always  except- 
ing hooks  and  lines.  His  hooks  were  also  a  revelation. 
We  used  only  Limericks  of  large  size,  and  boys  usually 
prefer  big  hooks  because  they  look  so  strong,  and  they 
fear  that  a  big  fish  may  break  a  small  hook.  Mr.  Daw- 
son's  hooks  were  small  and  the  wire  was  slim,  but  they 
were  long  in  the  shank,  something  like  the  hook  now 
known  as  the  "New  York  trout,"  if  not  the  same,  and  the 
most  wonderful  thing  about  them  was  that  they  were 
neatly  put  on  gut  snells — another  new  thing.  He  rigged 
my  line  with  one  of  the  smallest  hooks  and  discarded  the 
sinker,  which  before  seemed  to  be  an  indispensable  part 
of  a  fishing  outfit,  and  he  showed  us  how  to  fish  down 
stream  and  how  we  must  keep  a  good  distance  apart.  We 
fished  with  worms,  and  the  slim,  long-shanked  hooks 


56  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

were  perfect,  because  they  did  not  break  a  small  worm 
and  allowed  the  use  of  a  generous  bait  on  the  long  wire. 
How  I  treasured  a  dozen  of  these  hooks  which  he  gave 
me,  and  how  som*  boys  looked  at  them  with  envy  and 
others  sneered  at  them,  saying,  "A  big  fish  would  bite  'em 
in  two,"  are  things  well  remembered. 

The  stream  was  small;  in  places  one  could  jump  across 
it;  then  it  would  widen  out,  sometimes  in  deep  holes  and 
at  others  in  shallow  riffles,  through  meadows  most  of  the 
way  and  often  fringed  with  alders,  which  troubled  the 
angler  to  use  his  rod.  In  the  latter  case  trout  would  be 
hauled  in  as  on  a  hand  line.  There  was  no  landing  net  in 
the  party.  At  this  time  the  existence  of  such  an  imple- 
ment was  unknown  to  us  boys;  we  hauled  in  a  fish,  un- 
hooked it,  and  either  strung  it  on  a  twig  and  carried  the 
string  or  let  the  fish  hang  in  the  water  to  keep  alive. 
This  day  the  latter  mode  was  not  practicable.  The  trout 
in  this  stream  did  not  run  very  large,  perhaps  from  four 
to  six  ounces ;  but  the  new  kind  of  hooks,  the  absence  of 
a  sinker  and  the  consequent  ability  of  the  fish  to  fight, 
made  it  the  grandest  event  in  all  my  fishing,  and  one  ever 
to  be  remembered.  The  day  was  perfect:  a  light  breeze, 
the  sun  not  too  bright,  and  the  fish  taking  the  bait  freely. 
Crawling  through  the  brush  or  skipping  the  places  where 
it  was  too  thick  to  get  a  short  rod  and  line  in  the  water, 
we  worked  slowly  down  stream.  I  had  let  my  hook  drift 
under  a  log  in  a  hole  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream,  when 
a  trout  struck  it  hard.  We  had  not  arrived  at  that  point 
in  fine  angling  when  reels  were  used,  and  the  strike 
caught  me  with  my  tip  lowered,  and  there  was  a  struggle 
which  soon  ended  in  the  line  being  fast  to  some  immova- 
ble thing,  and  a  strong  pull  parted  it,  and  for  the  first  time 
the  biggest  got  away.  This  has  happened  to  others. 

Surely  it  is  hard  to  tell,  at  this  late  day,  whether  grief 


GEO.  DAWSON. 


GEORGE    DAW  SON.  57 

over  the  loss  of  a  big  fish  overtopped  the  grief  of  losing 
one  of  those  marvelous  hooks;  but  that  grief  in  solid 
chunks  was  abundant  in  a  little  clump  of  swamp  willows 
is  certain.  The  gut  snell  was  frayed  and  had  parted  in 
the  middle,  as  if  chafed  over  something  rough ;  and  after 
bending  on  a  new  hook  I  came  upon  young  George  near 
a  little  foot-bridge,  on  which  most  of  his  clothing  lay  in  a 
wet  state. 

" What's  the  matter,  George?" 

"Fell  in.     How  many  you  got?" 

"Nine,  nice  ones;  but  I  just  lost  an  old  whopper  and 
one  of  those  hooks  your  father  gave  me.  How  many 
have  you  got,  and  how  did  you  fall  in?" 

"I  only  caught  three;  the  fish  get  scared  as  soon  as 
they  see  you  and  scoot  away.  I  was  after  one  that  started 
down  stream,  and  stepped  on  a  slippery  stone  and  just 
plunked  in,  that's  all." 

After  pointing  out  to  him  that  trout  must  not  be 
chased  in  order  to  make  them  take  the  hook,  he  was  re- 
minded of  what  his  father  had  told  him  about  not  letting 
the  fish  see  him,  but  in  his  anxiety  to  get  a  worm  under  a 
trout's  nose  all  rules  had  been  forgotten.  The  morning's 
work  had  brought  on  a  first-class  appetite  on  my  school- 
mate as  well  as  on  me,  and  Mr.  Dawson  had  the  material 
to  alleviate  and  cure  that  gnawing  sensation  if  he  could 
be  found.  Leaving  all  my  traps  and  fish  at  the  foot- 
bridge, I  started  down  stream  to  find  Mr.  Dawson.  Soon 
he  hove  in  sight,  coming  up  stream,  and  he  had  a  string 
of  about  twenty  fine  trout.  "It's  getting  near  midday  and 
the  fish  are  not  biting  well,  so  we  might  as  well  rest  and 
eat  a  bite,"  said  he,  "and  then  by  the  time  we  are  through 
and  walk  back  to  the  station  the  freight  train  will  be  along 
and  we  will  go  back  in  the  caboose,  as  the  agent  said,  for 
if  we  wait  here  for  more  fishing  we  will  not  get  home  to- 


58  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

night,  as  the  fish  will  not  be  on  the  feed  again  before  an 
hour  or  two  of  sundown." 


George  Dawson,  while  a  trenchant  political  writer, 
was  also  fond  of  depicting  life  in  the  woods  and  on  the 
streams.  With  pleasure  I  renewed  my  acquaintance  with 
him  in  later  years,  when  peace  reigned  in  the  land,  and  by 
invitation  accompanied  him  to  the  Adirondacks  when 
both  were  familiar  with  the  use  of  the  fly  in  luring  the 
trout.  He  was  born  in  Falkirk,  Scotland,  in  1813,  and 
came  with  his  parents  to  America  five  years  later.  He 
had  no  early  schooling,  but  learned  the  printers'  trade  be- 
fore he  was  thirteen,  and  educated  himself.  Then  he 
went  to  Rochester  and  worked  for  Thurlow  Weed,  editor 
of  an  anti-Masonic  paper,  and  in  1836  Dawson  became 
editor  of  the  Rochester  Democrat.  Weed  was  afterward 
editor  of  the  Albany  Evening  Journal,  and  in  1846  Dawson 
joined  him  as  assistant  editor.  Weed  retired  in  the  stir- 
ring days  of  1862,  and  Mr.  Dawson  took  his  place  as  edi- 
tor and  proprietor  of  the  Journal,  then  as  now  one  of  the 
leading  papers  of  the  State  of  New  York;  and  it  soon  be- 
came known  that  the  pen  of  the  new  man  was  a  most 
vigorous  one.  His  love  of  nature  was  a  most  prominent 
trait,  and  fishing  was  his  favorite  means  of  enjoying  this 
love.  Once,  while  on  the  way  to  the  Adirondacks  with 
him,  I  remarked:  "The  woods  to  me  is  a  place  to  loaf." 
If  I  had  read  Whitman  then  I  would  have  added,  "and 
invite  my  soul,"  but  only  added,  "A  couple  of  hours'  fish- 
ing morning  and  evening  is  all  I  want;  if  the  fish  bite  good 
it  is  well;  if  not,  the  trying  for  them  suffices." 

"My  boy,"  he  replied,  "that  is  just  exactly  my  own 
notion,  and  I  have  a  dislike  for  the  companionship  of  the 


GEORGE    DAWSON.  59 

bustling,  busy  angler,  who  fishes  as  long  as  he  can  see  to 
do  it,  morn,  noon  and  dewy  eve,  in  the  hope  of  getting 
the  last  trout  in  the  water.  Such  a  man  makes  a  labor  of 
fishing;  I  go  to  the  woods  for  rest  and  other  attractions 
purer,  higher  and  more  ennobling  than  the  mere  act  of 
taking  fish." 

He  put  these  same  words  down  in  a  notebook,  and 
while  in  camp  wrote  an  account  of  the  trip  to  the  Journal 
and  used  them  in  its  columns  in  June,  1873,  now  before 
me. 

Once,  in  writing  of  "how  really  garrulous  are  the 
silent  men  of  meditative  mood,"  and  relating  how,  when 
in  the  woods,  their  faces  would  be  illuminated  by  the  pass- 
ing thoughts  while  they  were  really  communing  with  dis- 
tant friends,  and  their  silence  was  only  seeming,  and  mus- 
ing in  an  abstracted  way  was  a  rare  and  pleasant  gift,  he 
said:  "It  is  not  so  with  the  chronically  absent-minded, 
who  may  be  heavy-browed,  but  are  vinegar-visaged  and 
constitutionally  morbid,  and  would  no  sooner  think  of 
angling  than  of  robbing  the  exchequer  of  the  realm.  An 
editor's  life  is  neither  the  best  nor  the  worst  in  which  to 
cultivate  this  rare  gift.  There  are  those  in  the  profession 
who  can  so  concentrate  their  thoughts  that  the  pertin- 
acious pleadings  of  a  score  of  office-seekers  cannot  tangle 
the  thread  of  their  meditations.  And  sometimes  even  the 
least  abstracted  among  us  have  to  throw  off  sentences 
amid  such  persistent  din  that  bedlam  itself  would  blush  at 
the  clatter.  What  little  of  the  art  came  to  me  by  nature 
and  compulsory  practice  has  been  strengthened  by  the 
opportunities  for  silent  meditation  afforded  by  the  habit 
of  angling."  Thus  spoke  the  weary  political  editor,  and 
we  read  between  the  lines  his  disgust  with  the  horde  of 
office-seekers,  who,  under  the  ante-civil-service  laws,  ren- 
dered miserable  the  life  of  every  man  who  had  "infloo- 


60  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

ence"  in  the  smallest  degree ;  but  the  deduction  which  he 
draws — that  the  practice  of  angling  conduces  to  deliberate 
thought — is  one  that  should  commend  its  practise  to  par- 
ents as  the  best  of  all  sports  for  their  sons.  The  murder- 
ing instincts  of  a  boy  are  often  satisfied  with  the  death  of 
a  low  form  of  animal  life  which  cannot  suffer  as  much 
pain  as  mammals  or  birds,  under  any  circumstances,  be- 
cause their  nervous  organizations  are  lower.  Shake- 
speare was  greatly  in  error  when  he  wrote,  in  effect,  that : 
"The  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon  in  corporal  suffer- 
ance finds  a  pang  as  great  as  when  giant  dies."  Suffer- 
ing is  entirely  a  matter  of  nerves.  A  worm  which  can  be 
cut  in  two  and  go  on  living,  and  perhaps  grow  into  two 
worms,  cannot  suffer  much.  Pull  a  lobster's  claw  from 
its  body  and  a  new  one  grows ;  pull  a  limb  from  a  mouse 
and  the  animal  dies. 

Under  date  of  July  3,  1878,  Mr.  Dawson  wrote  me: 
"No  pastime  is  so  attractive  to  me  as  angling,  and  when 
not  at  it  I  greatly  like  to  talk  and  write  about  it,  ethically, 
not  scientifically,  for  I  have  never  been  able  to  master  an 
'ology'  of  any  kind,"  and  then  he  goes  on  to  ask  about  the 
details  of  grayling  fishing.  Some  time  before  this  I  called 
on  him  and  enlarged  on  the  pleasures  of  a  trip  to  the  Au 
Sable  River,  Michigan,  with  Mr.  Daniel  H.  Fitzhugh,  of 
Bay  City,  and  of  the  capture  of  the  gentle  grayling.  He 
listened  a  while  and  then  asked : 

"How  large  do  grayling  grow?" 

"Those  we  took  were  fish  that  would  weigh  from 
three-quarters  to  one  and  a  half  pounds,  but  some  have 
been  taken  that  would  weigh  as  much  as  two  pounds." 

"My  boy" — he  seemed  to  be  fond  of  addressing  me  in 
this  way,  perhaps  because  of  the  fact  of  the  great  disparity 
of  years  when  we  first  fished  together  back  of  Kinderhook 
Landing,  or  because  his  son,  George  S.,  was  my  school- 


GEORGE    DAWSON.  61 

mate — "you  talk  enthusiastically  about  this  new  fish, 
which  never  exceeds  two  pounds  in  weight;  did  you  ever 
take  a  salmon?" 

"No,  but " 

"Well,  I  have,  and  the  grayling  may  be  a  good  little 
fish  for  those  who  have  never  hooked  bigger  game ;  but  it 
seems  rather  small  to  one  who  has  taken  a  salmon." 

This  was  a  setback  from  an  enthusiastic  angler,  and, 
after  pulling  myself  together,  I  ventured  to  suggest 
that  his  angling  literature,  as  far  as  I  had  read  it,  rather 
placed  the  weight  and  number  of  fish  in  the  background, 
and  that,  as  the  originator  of  the  saying  that  "it  is  not  all 
of  fishing  to  fish,"  I  had  thought  that  the  newly  discovered 
grayling  might  interest  him.  He  saw  the  point  at  once, 
became  interested  in  the  fish  and  went  to  Michigan  to 
take  them,  an  account  of  which  can  be  found  in  his  "An- 
gling Talks,"  published  by  Forest  and  Stream  in  1883 — a 
most  interesting  little  work,  full  of  flavor  of  the  woods  and 
waters. 

Mr.  Dawson  died  February  17,  1883,  after  a  few  days' 
illness,  aged  seventy  years.  His  life  had  been  such  an 
active  one,  and  as  a  political  leader  he  was  so  prominent, 
that  his  death  produced  a  profound  sensation.  The  Al- 
bany Argus,  politically  opposed  to  Mr.  Dawson,  said  of 
him:  "To  journalism  this  man  bore  no  undistinguished 
relation.  He  was  a  ready,  wise,  dangerous  writer.  He 
was  a  Greek  to  be  feared  when  he  came  bearing  presents. 
*  *  *  He  was  very  able  in  stating  a  case  for  a  party; 
he  was  even  abler  in  stating  a  case  against  a  party.  He 
was  ablest  in  giving  a  man  either  a  fatal  defence  or  a  fatal 
attack.  His  genius  ran  to  combat;  battle  was  his  ele- 
ment. Routine  tired  him.  Peace  gave  him  a  sense  of 
ennui" 

About  five  months  before  his  death  he  retired  from  his 


62  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

editorial  labors,  although  his  well-knit  frame  and  com- 
pact form  showed  no  more  sign  of  weariness  than  did  his 
mind.  The  Argus  said:  ''Pneumonia  wrestled  the  life 
out  of  this  Scot,  they  say.  Doubtless  it  did;  'twas  pneu- 
monia of  which  he  died.  But  how  came  his  constitution 
to  take  it?  Through  cold?  Why,  he  had  summered  for 
years  in  water  knee-high,  or  waist-high,  putting  up  jobs 
on  fish.  Why,  he  had  repeatedly  slept  on  the  floor  of  lum- 
ber cabins  o'  winter  nights,  his  feet  to  a  fire  and  his  head 
under  an  open  window,  in  the  Michigan  woods.  He  had 
the  conquering  will  that  defied  wet  and  blasts.  Did  his 
prolonged  labors  undermine  his  constitution?  Emphat- 
ically no!  He  was  ever  strongest  in  harness.  When  he 
went  to  press  every  day  he  went  to  bed  every  night  to 
sleep  the  easy-breathing,  refreshing  sleep  of  a  boy. 
Knocking  off  work  unsettled  this  man's  strength.  Labor 
was  a  tonic  to  him.  He  would  have  lived  through  sheer 
love  of  labor  had  he  remained  a  scalp-taker  every  day, 
armed  with  his  keen  pen  and  keener  thought.  None  can 
be  blamed.  He  quitted  work  because  he  said  he  wanted 
to  quit  it.  He  thought  that  lessening  the  tension  would 
enable  him  to  play  in  the  youth  of  old  age.  And  he  loved 
to  play.  But  work  was  his  best  play.  Then  he  played 
with  thunder." 

Only  once  did  Mr.  Dawson  hold  public  office.  He 
was  postmaster  of  Albany  from  1861  to  1867,  at  a  time 
when  his  pen  was  most  actively  engaged  in  the  patriotic 
work  of  upholding  the  integrity  of  the  Union.  But  he 
did  not  stop  at  writing  editorials  and  equipping  his  eldest 
son  for  the  army.  He  publicly  announced  that  he  would 
pay  to  the  families  of  any  six  printers  who  would  volun- 
teer $4  per  week  during  the  time  they  remained  in  the 
United  States  service,  and  he  did  it.  One  of  the  six, 
Charles  Van  Allen,  of  Bethlehem,  Albany  county,  went 


GEORGE    DAW  SON.  63 

out  with  my  regiment  in  August,  1862,  and  died  in  An- 
dersonville  prison  September  18, 1864.  His  wife  received 
the  pay  for  nearly  a  year  after  he  died,  or  for  the  full  term 
of  his  enlistment,  some  $624,  all  to  one  family. 

George  Dawson  was  a  member  of  the  Baptist  Church, 
a  Sunday-school  teacher  and  lay  preacher.  A  noble  man 
and  a  most  charming  one  to  be  in  camp  with.  Entirely 
without  ostentation,  his  acts  of  charity  were  known  to 
but  few,  and  if  within  his  power  his  pencil  would  be  drawn 
through  most  of  these  lines,  written  by  one  who  is  proud 
to  have  known  him  and  to  have  called  him  friend. 


MAJOR   GEORGE   S.    DAWSON. 

CAPTAIN  GEORGE  S.  DAWSON,  Second  New 
York  Heavy  Artillery,  my  schoolmate  and  fish- 
ing companion  on  the  one  trip  which  has  been 
related,  was  stationed  in  the  defences  of  Washington,  near 
Alexandria,  in  1863,  and  came  to  visit  me  when  my  regi- 
ment, the  Seventh  New  York  Heavy  Artillery,  occupied 
the  forts  from  Tennallytown,  on  the  Harper's  Ferry  road, 
to  Fort  De  Russy,  near  the  Seventh  street  road,  and  we 
had  a  grand  review  of  the  schoolboy  days  and  of  the  only 
fishing  trip  that  we  ever  had  together.  Said  he:  "That 
day  will  ever  be  remembered,  for  in  my  case  it  filled  the 
proverbial  measure  of  fisherman's  luck;  and  that  lunch! 
Did  you  ever  strike  anything  so  fine?"  His  regiment,  in 
June,  1864,  was  in  the  Second  Brigade,  First  Division, 
Second  Corps,  Army  of  the  Potomac ;  while  mine  was  in 
the  Fourth  Brigade  of  the  same  division  and  corps. 
While  we  lay  in  the  trenches  at  Cold  Harbor  I  sent  him  a 
note  asking  if  he  was  catching  many  trout  now,  and  he 
answered,  in  effect,  that  his  regiment  caught  something 
else  in  the  charge  on  June  3,  and  to  the  best  of  his  knowl- 
edge the  Seventh  Artillery  had  some  of  the  same  brim- 
stone. The  official  records  show  that  the  Second  lost  215 
officers  and  men  killed,  wounded  and  missing  in  that  ter- 
rible assault  on  the  impregnable  works  at  Cold  Harbor, 
mainly  in  the  charge  on  the  morning  of  June  3,  1864. 
My  message  had  the  desired  effect;  it  showed  that  my 
schoolmate  had  lived  through  the  storm  and  was  still  on 
duty.  Twelve  days  later  our  brigades  were  halted  near 
each  other,  preparatory  to  forming  for  the  battle  which 

64 


MAJOR  GEO.  S.   DAWSON. 


MAJOR    GEORGE    S.    DAW  SON.  65 

took  place  next  day,  and  he  sought  me  out.  In  the  few 
minutes'  chat  he  ran  over  several  incidents  of  school  days, 
and  referred  to  good  old  Professor  Anthony  and  our 
trouting.  That  day's  fishing  was  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind. 
I  never  fished  with  him  again,  and  do  not  know  that  he 
ever  went  fishing  after  that  time.  In  later  years,  while 
fishing  with  his  father,  we  often  talked  of  the  Major,  and 
he  was  a  favorite  subject  with  the  elder  George,  but  no 
reference  to  his  fishing,  except  on  that  one  occasion,  was 
ever  made. 

A  bugle  call  broke  our  conference,  and  with  a  hurried 
grip  of  the  hand  Captain  Dawson  said:  "I  think  we  will 
intrench  here  and  besiege  Petersburg,  and  then  we  can 
visit  often.  Good-by." 

There  was  a  siege  of  Petersburg  after  the  assault  on 
the  enemy's  works  on  June  16,  but  Captain  Dawson  took 
no  part  in  it.  A  rifle-shot  just  above  the  left  knee,  which 
he  thought  only  a  flesh  wound  and  which  the  surgeon 
termed  "a  thirty-days'  scratch" — meaning  a  furlough  for 
that  length  of  time — took  him  off  the  field;  and  twenty- 
four  hours  later,  while  on  his  way  to  the  Second  Corps 
hospital  at  City  Point,  he  was  strong  enough  to  hold  in 
his  lap  the  head  of  a  poor  fellow  whose  leg  had  been  am- 
putated. Whether  the  wound  was  more  serious  than  was 
at  first  supposed,  or  because  of  the  jolting  in  the  ambu- 
lance, his  leg  was  amputated  shortly  after  reaching  the 
hospital,  and  he  was  sent  by  steamer  to  Washington, 
where  he  remained  four  months  before  he  was  allowed  to 
be  taken  home.  Shortly  after  reaching  Washington  his 
commission  as  major  was  received.  "That's  good," 
said  he;  "when  my  leg  gets  a  little  better  I'll  be  mustered 
in  as  major,  and  then  I  can  join  my  regiment  as  a  mounted 
officer;  for  a  fellow  with  one  leg  is  of  no  use  in  the  line, 
and  I  want  to  see  this  war  fought  to  the  end."  Poor  fel- 


66  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

low !  he  died  on  December  6,  nearly  four  months  after  re- 
ceiving his  wound,  aged  twenty-six  and  a  half  years. 

The  post-mortem  showed  that  the  bone  was  injured 
above  the  amputation,  and  in  army  parlance  he  is  still 
"awaiting  muster."  As  a  schoolboy  he  was  very  bright 
and  studious,  and  although  several  years  my  junior  he 
helped  me  out  in  my  studies  and  "exams."  many  times. 
After  leaving  school  he  entered  the  service  of  Weed,  Par- 
sons &  Co.,  publishers,  and  was  a  member  of  the  Tenth 
Regiment,  New  York  Militia,  before  the  war.  Early  in 
the  war  he  offered  his  services  as  a  private,  but  was  re- 
jected because  of  a  defect  in  one  eye  from  an  accident  in 
childhood ;  but  he  was  bound  to  go  in  some  capacity,  and 
after  the  Second  Artillery  left  Albany  there  was  a  vacant 
first  lieutenantcy,  and  he  got  the  appointment  and  joined 
the  command  at  Staten  Island,  before  it  left  the  State,  and 
was  afterward  made  captain.  No  less  a  poet  than  Alfred 
B.  Street  wrote  quite  a  long  poem  on  "George  Seward 
Dawson,  Major  Second  New  York  Artillery,  died  from 
wounds  received  before  Petersburg,  June  16,  1864."  Af- 
ter his  death  the  Governor  of  the  State  forwarded  to  the 
bereaved  father  a  brevet  commission  for  his  son  (in  mem- 
oriam)  of  lieutenant-colonel,  "for  gallant  and  meritorious 
conduct  before  Petersburg,  Va."  His  regimental  com- 
rades bore  witness  to  his  soldierly  qualities  in  a  set  of  reso- 
lutions sent  to  his  father,  and  Post  No.  63,  Department  of 
New  York,  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  of  Albany,  is 
named  "George  S.  Dawson,"  after  the  young  soldier 
whose  life  of  promised  usefulness  was,  like  so  many  others, 
brought  to  a  sudden  end,  but  cannot  be  considered 
wasted. 


GEORGE   W.   SIMPKINS. 

MY  FIRST  DEER. 

IF  I  was  ever  a  good  boy  my  mother  never  told  me  of  it. 
Hundreds  of  times,  when  I  would  come  home  from  a 
nutting  expedition  with  trousers  torn  by  shag-bark 
hickory,  she  has  said,  while  viewing  the  breaches  in  the 
breeches,  "I  declare,  Fred,  I  think  you  are  the  worst  boy 
in  the  world."  As  this  was  often  repeated  when  my 
shoes  were  ruined  by  being  in  mud  and  water  all  day,  I 
accepted  it  as  a  correct  estimate  of  my  rating.  But,  I  ask 
you,  how  is  a  boy  to  get  the  first  whack  at  the  shellbarks 
before  they  drop  unless  he  climbs  the  trees?  How  can  he 
wade  a  stream  without  wetting  his  shoes,  unless  he  takes 
them  off?  The  fact  was  apparent  to  me  that  my  mother 
knew  little  about  a  boy's  needs,  and  therefore  was  not 
competent  to  criticise  a  boy's  actions.  You've  got  to  shin 
up  a  tree  to  get  the  nuts  if  the  frost  has  not  opened  the 
shucks  and  the  tree  is  too  tall  to  use  sticks  and  stones  on 
with  good  effect.  That's  a  plain  statement  of  fact,  and  it 
can't  be  disputed;  but  somehow  mothers  fail  to  see  these 
things  in  the  proper  light. 

"When  vacation  time  comes,"  said  my  mother,  "if  you 
are  a  good  boy  and  go  to  school  regularly,  don't  ruin  your 
shoes  in  the  swamps  nor  tear  your  clothes  in  the  nut  trees, 
you  may  go  and  visit  with  Mr.  Simpkins,  where  you  will 
have  all  the  fishing  and  shooting  that  you  want.  He 
writes  that  he  would  like  you  to  spend  your  vacation  with 
him,  and  perhaps  you  may  see  a  deer,  for  they  are  plenti- 
ful near  his  place.  It  all  depends,  however,  on  th?  way 
you  behave  between  now  and  then." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Simpkins,  mother,  and  where  does  he 
live?" 

67 


68  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"He  is  a  farmer  who  lives  up  in  Warren  county,  on  the 
border  of  the  great  woods.  His  farm  is  on  the  Schroon 
River,  where  there  are  plenty  of  fish,  and  the  woods  are 
full  of  game  of  all  kinds.  He  married  a  distant  relative 
of  mine  whom  you  never  met,  but  who  spent  some  months 
with  us  before  you  can  remember." 

Here  was  a  prospect  of  fun!  Fishing  and  shooting, 
with  the  chance  of  seeing  a  real  live  deer!  There  was  a 
stuffed  buck  in  the  State  Geological  Hall  in  Albany,  but 
it  appeared  to  be  ridiculously  small  to  my  notion,  for  I 
had  read  that  "A  monstrous  buck  came  crashing  through 
the  underbrush,"  while  the  little  animal,  a  trifle  moth- 
eaten,  that  stood,  stuffed  and  looking  unhappy,  was  not 
as  big  as  our  brindle  cow. 

This  was  in  the  spring  of  1849 — recalled  by  one  of 
mother's  letters  now  before  me — and  I  would  be  sixteen 
years  old  when  August  came.  From  a  public  library 
Cooper's  "Deerslayer"  was  borrowed,  and  John  Atwood 
and  I  studied  it  carefully.  It  was  excitingly  interesting, 
and  we  held  our  breath  when  the  cap  was  lifted  from  the 
old  pirate,  Hutter,  in  his  ark,  and  he  was  found  to  be 
scalped  when  they  thought  he  was  only  drunk,  and  the 
whole  story  of  Indian  fighting,  capture  and  escape  from 
torture  so  took  possession  of  us  that  the  book  was  finished 
before  it  occurred  to  John  to  say:  "It's  a  mighty  good 
story,  but  I'll  be  durned  if  it  tells  much  about  killin'  deer. 
I  thought  it  was  a-goin'  to  tell  a  feller  how  to  find  'em,  an" 
how  to  shoot  'em,  an'  it's  all  about  killin'  Injens.  I  don't 
want  to  kill  any  Injens — they  never  hurt  me  none — but  I 
would  like  to  get  a  crack  at  a  deer.  You  got  to  have  a 
good  rifle  an'  take  'em  jes  back  of  the  fore  shoulder,  right 
in  the  heart,  or  they'll  run  off  an'  die.  You  couldn't  kill 
a  deer!  You'd  git  scared  if  you  saw  one.  I  don't  believe 
Ole  Port  Tyler  could  kill  a  deer,  'less  the  deer  stood  still, 


GEORGE    W.    SIMPKINS.  69 

for  they  jump  a  hundred  feet  at  a  lick,  an'  lightnin'  'd  have 
a  hard  time  to  ketch  'em/' 

The  days  were  filled  with  talk  of  the  coming  expedi- 
tion into  a  land  where  the  deer  had  not  only  lived,  but  had 
been  seen  feeding  among  the  cows;  and  the  nights  were 
filled  with  visions  of  deer  whose  horns  were  as  high  and 
branching  as  an  oak,  and  the  squirrels  were  leaping  from 
tine  to  tine,  disturbing  the  partridges  which  were  nesting 
in  the  antlers.  Even  dreams  have  ends  to  them,  whether 
of  sport,  fame  or  wealth.  The  long-looked-for  day  came, 
and  the  start  was  made.  At  this  day  all  is  blank  until 
Glens  Falls  was  reached,  and  whether  we  started  from 
Albany  by  rail,  canal  or  stage  is  uncertain.  The  ecstatic 
pleasure  of  at  last  really  going  to  this  promised  land  of 
fish  and  game  obliterated  all  such  purely  mechanical  ideas 
as  the  ways  to  get  there.  But  Glens  Falls  was  a  place  to 
be  looked  out  for  with  open  eyes.  Here  was  the  cave  in 
which  Hawk-Eye  and  Uncas  stood  off  the  Mingoes! 
Here  was  the  precipice  from  which  Uncas  killed  the 
Mingo  who  fell  from  an  overhanging  tree,  and  Uncas  was 
chided  by  the  scout  for  hitting  him  some  "two  inches  be- 
low" the  painted  belt  line,  as  memory  recalls  the  story. 

Mother  went  up  with  me.  She  was  entirely  ignorant 
of  the  history  of  that  terrible  night  in  the  cavern  when 
the  screams  of  the  tortured  horses  directed  the  rescuers 
to  the  cave,  and  actually  seemed  indifferent  about  visiting 
places  which  to  me  were  not  only  historic,  but  sacred. 

Here  I  must  pause  and  look  back.  At  that  time  the 
difference  between  history  and  fiction  was  not  a  strictly 
defined  line.  My  ideas  of  such  things  were  crude.  To- 
day, forty-seven  years  later,  when  one  should  be  able  to 
discriminate  between  fact  and  fancy  in  what  passes  for 
history,  that  line  seems  as  misty  as  ever.  Prescott's  "Con- 
quest of  Mexico"  is  grand,  but  we  do  not  find  the  evidence 


70  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

of  an  advanced  civilization  before  the  conquest  of  that 
country.  The  great  temples  have  not  a  stone  left.  There 
is  not  a  trace  of  an  aboriginal,  intelligent  people,  while  at 
Glens  Falls  the  cave  of  Uncas  is  there,  in  part.  The  great 
cliff,  where  the  Mingo  was  shot  by  Uncas,  is  being  torn 
down,  and  a  few  years  ago  I  was  there  with  a  Fish  Com- 
missioner who  had  no  poetry  in  his  soul,  and  who  actually 
suggested  cutting  away  a  portion  of  the  celebrated  cave  of 
Uncas  to  make  a  fishway ! 

I  have  strayed  from  my  text,  but  let  us  hope  that  the 
people  of  Glens  Falls  or  of  the  State  of  New  York  will 
preserve  this  cave,  as  all  other  historic  places  are  pre- 
served ;  for  if  the  cave  is  not  a  part  of  real  history,  it  should 
be  made  so  by  law. 


It  was  evening  when  Mr.  Simpkins  met  us  at  the  hotel 
in  Warrensburgh  with  his  team.  He  was  a  stalwart 
farmer,  whose  appearance,  from  team  to  person,  denoted 
thrift,  and  his  cordial  reception  soon  made  us  friends.  A 
drive  of  three  or  four  miles  northward  brought  us  to  his 
farm,  a  welcome  from  Mrs.  Simpkins  and  supper.  The 
house  was  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  up  which  ran  a  road, 
and  most  of  the  farm  was  in  a  deep  bend  of  the  Schroon 
River,  where  the  soil  was  very  rich  and  from  which  a  crop 
of  grain  had  been  taken.  It  was  too  late  in  the  day  to  fish 
or  shoot,  but  my  fishing  tackle  was  laid  out  and  inspected 
and  we  talked  of  field  sports  until  bedtime,  when  a  tired 
boy  turned  and  caught  enormous  fish  which  unhooked 
themselves  and  either  walked  back  into  the  water  on  the.tr 
tails  or  vanished  into  air.  A  squirrel  which  I  had  killed 
turned  into  a  live  bear  and  was  charging  me  when  Mrs. 
Simpkins  called  me  to  breakfast,  and  the  real  world  came 
suddenly  back.  If  the  shade  of  Shakespeare  could  have 


GEORGE    W.    SIMPKINS.  71 

spent  the  night  with  me  he  would  have  amended  his  say- 
ing: "Dreams  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain."  Mine 
was  busy. 

Bait  had  been  provided  and  the  river  was  reached.  Mr. 
Simpkins  had  often  fished  before,  but  it  was  evident  that 
my  schooling  under  Reuben  Wood  and  John  Atwood 
rendered  me  competent  to  show  him  how  to  rig  his  lines, 
select  his  poles,  and  how  to  properly  impale  a  worm.  He 
chose  a  low  point  of  land  where  there  was  a  high  bank  and 
a  deep  hole  on  the  opposite  side,  in  the  bend,  and  we 
fished.  At  that  early  day  there  were  no  black  bass  in 
either  Schroon  Lake  or  the  river,  and  we  took  a  fine  lot 
of  perch  and  a  few  other  fishes.  He  was  an  observant 
man  and  showed  me  where  kingfishers  had  nested  in  a 
hole  in  the  bank,  under  a  stump,  and  we  dug  out  the  nest 
and  a  lot  of  fish  bones,  and  the  nesting  habits  of  this  bird 
were  learned. 

Gray  squirrels  were  plenty;  they  could  be  seen  and 
heard  in  all  directions  from  the  house,  and  as  this  kind  of 
game  was  rare  about  Greenbush,  where  the  little  chicka- 
ree, or  red  squirrel,  was  abundant,  there  was  every  morn- 
ing either  fishing  or  squirrel  shooting,  and  in  the  evening 
a  shot  or  two  at  the  great  northern  hare,  a  new  animal  to 
me,  which  they  said  was  white  in  winter.  Mother  went 
home  after  a  week,  saying  that  she  had  eaten  fish  and 
game  enough  to  last  for  some  time,  and  I  went  up  the 
mountain  the  day  before  she  left  and  brought  her  five 
ruffed  grouse  (we  called  them  "pa'tridges")  to  take  home 
to  the  family.  I  made  the  usual  promise  which  a  mother 
always  expects,  to  be  a  good  boy ;  no  hard  matter,  with  no 
schoolmaster  near  and  all  the  time  to  do  as  I  pleased. 

One  day  we  were  fishing  in  the  river,  taking  an  occa- 
sional fish  and  watching  the  little  rafts  of  boards  float  by, 
when  one  with  a  man  on  it  came  in  sight.  He  was  steer- 


72  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

ing  it  with  a  pole  and  starting  any  others  that  had  lodged 
along  the  banks;  when  he  saw  us  he  pushed  up  ashore, 
and,  after  the  usual  greeting,  said:  "Simpkins,  we  are 
going  to  have  a  deer  hunt  day  after  to-morrow;  will  you 
go?" 

"Yes;  where  are  you  going  to  make  the  drive?" 

"Over  on  the  West  River,  where  we  went  last  year. 
Our  boys  haven't  had  a  bite  of  venison  this  summer,  and 
they  think  it  about  time  for  it;  we'll  look  for  you,  sure," 
and  he  poled  his  raft  into  the  stream  and  was  soon  lost  to 
sight. 

The  "West  River"  was  a  local  term  for  the  Hudson, 
the  Schroon  being  the  "East  River."  I  had  heard  that 
Simpkins  was  a  mighty  hunter,  especially  good  at  still- 
hunting.  He  said  that  the  season  was  too  early  for  the 
latter  sport,  because  the  trees  and  underbrush  were  in  full 
leaf.  He  brought  out  his  favorite  gun,  oiled  the  locks 
and  cleaned  the  barrels.  It  was  a  double  gun,  one  barrel 
a  rifle  and  the  other  a  smooth-bore,  quite  heavy  and  hand- 
somely finished.  I  had  been  using  a  single-barreled  shot- 
gun on  the  grouse  and  squirrels,  and  had  not  seen  this 
one.  Old  Gunner,  his  hound,  had  an  eye  on  the  gun,  and 
it  might  have  been  hard  to  say  whose  excitement  was 
greatest,  his  or  mine.  There  was  this  difference  between 
us:  Gunner  was  asking  and  expecting  to  go,  and  I  would 
not  ask  and  did  not  expect  to  be  invited  to  join  in  a  hunt 
with  men  who  might  not  like  the  intrusion ;  but  you  have 
no  idea  how  much  I  would  have  liked  an  invitation ! 

"Ever  shoot  a  rifle?"  Simpkins  asked. 

"No;  but  I've  seen  a  man  shoot  at  a  mark  lots  of  times, 
and  have  often  sighted  it  on  his  targets,  and  I  know  how 
to  load  one."  All  this  to  show  that  I  thought  I  could  be 
trusted  with  a  rifle  if  he'd  only  ask  me  to  go.  Oh,  if  he 
only  would!  "I  know  you  put  the  bullet  on  your  flat 


GEORGE    W.    S1MPKINS.  73 

hand  and  pour  on  powder  enough  to  cover  it,  and  that's 
the  proper  load.  Then  you  put  the  powder  in  the  rifle 
and  lay  a  greased  patch  over  the  muzzle,  put  the  bullet  on 
the  patch  and  force  it  down,  way  down,  until  it  is  home 
and  the  ramrod  bounds  on  it.  The  rod  won't  bounce  if 
the  bullet  isn't  home."  This  was  to  give  him  further 
proof  that  I  knew  enough  about  a  rifle  to  use  one.  Would 
he  ever  take  the  hint? 

"I've  killed  eleven  deer  with  this  gun,"  said  he,  "and 
I  haven't  had  it  two  years.  Killed  all  but  one  with  the 
rifle  barrel.  That  one  was  close  by,  not  over  thirty  yards 
off,  and  I  missed  it  clean  with  the  rifle;  the  bullet  may 
have  touched  a  twig  and  gone  off  somewhere  else,  for  the 
deer  stood  broadside  to  and  didn't  see  me.  He  jumped 
at  the  shot,  but  I  fetched  him  with  buckshot  in  the  other 
barrel.  Ever  see  a  deer?" 

"Not  a  live  one;  only  stuffed  ones,  in  the  museum;  but 
I  would  like  to  see  a  real  live  deer  in  the  woods,  jumping 
as  they  do  in  pictures."  There!  that  was  a  distinct  bid 
for  an  invitation.  If  it  didn't  come  after  that  he  was  a 
stupid,  or  did  not  want  me.  He  put  the  gun  aside,  rilled 
his  powder  horn,  spent  much  time  with  other  things,  and 
then  slowly  said: 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  along?" 
"Oh,  Mr.  Simpkins!  you  don't  mean  it!     I  would  be  in 
the  way,  I  fear." 

"No,  you  can  go  if  you  like;  I'll  go  up  the  hill  to  Kel- 
lam's  and  borrow  a  rifle  for  you;  he  has  three,  and  you  can 
practise  with  it  this  afternoon,  and  we'll  get  an  early  start 
in  the  morning." 

My  rifle  shooting  that  afternoon  did  not  break  all  rec- 
ords, unless  for  bad  off-hand  shooting;  but  who  could  do 
good  shooting  when  all  a-tremble  from  head  to  foot?  The 
fact  that  many  monstrous  bucks  were  killed  in  bed  that 


74  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

night  proves  that  I  had  some  sleep.  Otherwise  I  doubt 
if  an  eye  was  closed. 

Two  boys  joined  the  party  before  we  had  gone  far. 
They  were  Henry  Tripp  and  my  later  army  comrade, 
Colonel  M.  N.  Dickinson,  both  living  in  Warrensburgh 
to-day.  Ben  Kellam  and  another  man  made  up  the  party 
of  six,  and  there  were  about  as  many  hounds. 

A  man  took  all  the  dogs  and  put  them  out  singly  as  he 
found  a  deer  track,  while  the  rest  went  on  to  take  stands 
on  the  runways.  I  was  placed  in  a  road  looking  over  a 
field  to  a  piece  of  woods  some  two  hundred  yards  off,  and 
told  to  watch  a  point  where  a  deer  might  come  out,  but 
not  to  shoot  until  it  had  jumped  the  rail  fence,  when  it 
might  stop  to  look  up  and  down  the  road  if  not  frightened, 
and  so  a  good  shot  could  be  had.  It  seemed  many  hours 
— it  may  have  been  half  of  one — when  a  hound  that  had 
been  baying  for  some  time  in  the  distance  was  evidently 
getting  nearer ;  still  he  was  afar  off.  A  farm  wagon  came 
rattling  up  the  road  with  three  men  in  it.  When  opposite 
me,  as  I  turned  to  look  at  them,  one  arose  and  yelled :  "See 
that  deer !"  I  looked  back  and  saw  something  like  a  small 
calf  turn  and  re-enter  the  woods.  So  that  little  thing  was 
a  deer!  Where  was  the  hound?  In  the  pictures  the 
hounds  were  pressing  the  deer  hard,  some  of  them  tearing 
at  his  flanks.  More  time  passed ;  such  long  hours  I  never 
did  see;  the  sun  was  not  yet  at  meridian,  and  the  hound 
kept  slowly  approaching — oh,  so  slow! — and  finally  old 
Gunner  came  out  of  that  bit  of  wood,  giving  tongue  at  in- 
tervals, and  after  slowly  getting  to  the  place  where  I  first 
saw  the  deer  he  turned  and  followed  its  track,  making  a  V 
out  into  the  field.  I  had  at  last  seen  a  real  live  deer! 
That  was  a  thing  to  tell  John  Atwood  and  Port  Tyler,  and 
to  brag  about. 

Young  Tripp,  who  had  been  stationed  next  to  me, 


GEORGE    W.    SIMPKINS.  75 

came  running  down  to  learn  if  the  deer  had  crossed.  The 
driver  soon  appeared  and  said  that  it  was  an  old  runway 
that  was  seldom  used,  and  none  of  the  party  wanted  it. 
"Yet,"  said  he,  "the  first  deer  of  the  season  took  it,  and 
you'd  have  got  a  shot  only  for  that  wagon." 

Perhaps  it  was  well  that  it  turned  out  so,  for,  as  he 
spoke,  a  rifle  shot  was  heard  off  to  the  left,  where  the  deer 
went,  and  we  learned  afterward  that  Dickinson  stopped 
my  deer  a  mile  above,  and  it  was  a  fair-sized  doe,  in  good 
condition. 

So  far  there  was  a  lack  of  excitement  in  hounding 
deer.  The  long,  solitary  waits,  not  long  in  reality,  but 
intolerably  so  to  a  boy  whose  gun  was  ready,  and,  as  he 
fixed  himself  on  the  runway,  mentally  said:  "Now  bring 
on  your  deer!" 

The  patience  of  the  fisherman  somehow  was  mislaid. 
The  case  was  different.  Of  course  you  must  wait  in  the 
quiet  of  a  mill-pond  for  a  fish  to  come  to  sample  your  bait, 
but  here  was  a  noisy,  bell-mouthed  hound  proclaiming 
his  every  move,  bringing  to  you  a  new  game  of  great  size, 
which  tested  your  marksmanship  to  its  utmost.  He  would 
not  swallow  your  hook  and  be  pulled  in  by  main  strength, 
oh,  no!  Here  I  give  up  the  comparison.  We  all  know 
just  how  it  is.  I've  tried  to  tell  how  I  think  it  is,  but  give 
it  up.  Can't  do  it. 

Ben  Kellam  took  me  over  to  the  river,  and  put  me  on 
a  runway  there,  and  left.  He  said  that  the  other  hounds 
were  off,  some  out  of  hearing,  but  they  might  bring  a  deer 
this  way.  I  was  on  a  high  bank  on  an  outside  bend  of 
the  river,  and  could  see  down  to  the  next  bend,  about  one 
hundred  yards,  and  there  was  a  shallow  riffle  that  a  deer 
could  walk  from  opposite  my  station  to  the  point  below, 
on  my  side.  I  ate  my  lunch.  Squirrels  jumped  about 
and  a  partridge  alighted  on  a  nearby  limb.  Temptation 


76  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

is  one  of  the  hardest  things  to  resist,  and  I  have  not  always 
been  equal  to  the  task;  but  this  day  I  simply  took  good 
aim  at  them  and  thought.  It  had  been  impressed  upon 
me  that  I  must  not  shoot  except  at  a  deer — that  a  shot 
from  me  would  testify  that  a  deer  had  come  my  way  and 
would  confuse  others.  Hounds  were  tonguing  in  sev- 
eral directions.  I  had  about  lost  interest  in  this  stupid 
work  when,  "flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow,"  a  buck 
walked  down  the  opposite  slope  into  the  river!  It  must 
be  a  dream!  There  were  no  hounds  after  him  that  could 
be  seen,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  choking.  He  drank, 
looked  around  and  drank  again.  I  must  shoot  him !  That 
fact  came  slowly  to  me,  but  I  was  all  a-tremble.  He 
walked  diagonally  across  the  river.  I  aimed  and  fired. 
He  floundered  in  the  water.  Surely  he  was  hit,  but  might 
escape!  Never  thinking  to  load  and  shoot  again,  I  left 
the  rifle,  and  with  bare  hands  started  for  the  buck  to  take 
him  by  the  horns  and  drown  him.  I  slipped  on  the  slimy 
stones  and  fell  twice,  but  the  buck  was  slipping  and  falling 
also.  I  was  within  twenty  feet  of  him  when  a  rifle  shot 
dropped  him.  It  was  Simpkins,  who  had  hurried  forward 
at  the  sound  of  my  shot,  and  just  in  time  to  save  the  day. 
Unless  a  scratch  on  top  of  his  neck  was  made  by  my  bul- 
let, I  missed  him.  The  slippery  stones  threw  the  buck 
when  he  tried  to  run,  and  to  my  statement  that  I  intended 
to  take  him  by  the  horns  and  drown  him  Simpkins  said: 
"You  durned  fool,  he'd  'a'  ripped  all  the  clothes  offen  you 
with  his  forefeet,  and  might  'a'  taken  your  bowels  out  at 
the  same  time.  Don't  you  ever  go  to  foolin'  with  a  deer 
that  has  g*ot  fight  left  in  him,  or  you  won't  have  any  left 
in  you."  The  shots  brought  Dickinson  and  Tripp,  and 
the  buck  was  soon  skinned  and  cut  up  for  transportation. 
Although  the  horns  were  in  the  velvet  and  said  to  be  of 
no  use,  I  insisted  on  saving  them  as  a  trophy  of  my  "first 


GEORGE    W.    SIMPKINS. 


77 


deer,"  for,  like  Falstaff  over  the  dead  body  of  Hotspur,  I 
intended  to  "swear  I  killed  him  myself."  So  the  trophy 
was  preserved  and  taken  to  Albany,  and  for  many  years  I 
did  more  lying  about  killing  that  buck  than  a  dealer  in 
garden  seeds  does  in  his  spring  catalogue. 

Simpkins  said:  "A  little  lie  like  that  never  hurts  any- 
body. Most  all  young  hunters  lie  a  little  about  their 
game."  At  first  it  hurt  me  to  lie  about  it — especially  to 
Old  Port  Tyler,  who  wanted  all  the  details — but  the  story 
soon  assumed  the  veracity  of  history.  In  later  life  I  killed 
many  deer,  but  they  somehow  never  assumed  the  impor- 
tance of  the  only  one  I  ever  lied  about.  I  wrote  John  At- 
wood  about  it,  quoting  from  "As  You  Like  It:"  "Which 
is  he  that  killed  the  deer?"  and  winding  up  by  telling  him 
that  he  didn't  know  a  thing  about  the  jump  of  the  deer, 
for  they  couldn't  make  over  fifteen  feet  at  a  jump. 

A  quarter  of  the  doe  which  Dickinson  killed  was  given 
me  to  carry.  I  was  put  on  the  road  home,  while  the  rest 
went  another  way.  Stopping  at  Kellam's  about  sun- 
down, his  wife  gave  me  supper;  and,  leaving  the  rifle,  I 
took  a  shotgun  and  shouldered  the  venison  for  home, 
down  the  mountain.  An  unearthly  scream  came  from  a 
distance,  and  my  pace  quickened.  Again  the  horrible 
scream  was  given  closer  by,  and  with  an  open  pocket  knife 
and  a  cocked  gun  I  jumped  down  the  hill,  leaving  tracks 
that  surprised  men  who  saw  them  next  day.  Getting 
over  a  rail  fence  near  the  house  the  knife  pricked  my  wrist, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  animal  had  me.  I  was  faint  with 
fright,  and  it  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Simpkins  could 
learn  the  cause.  Her  husband  came  about  midnight  and 
heard  her  story  as  he  was  about  to  get  in  bed.  He 
dressed,  called  Gunner,  took  his  rifle  and  started  up  the 
hill.  Kellam  and  he  put  the  dog  out,  but  old  Gunner 
soon  came  back,  cried,  got  between  his  master's  legs  and 


78  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

could  not  be  made  to  stir.  A  puppy  went  on  and  put  up 
something,  but  they  could  not  follow  it. 

A  panther  had  been  about  the  locality,  and  shortly 
after  I  left  Mr.  Simpkins  killed  a  large  one.  A  Mr.  Bead- 
enell  said  it  was  a  blue  jay  that  screamed  and  scared  me, 
but  when  I  told  this  to  my  friend  he  said:  "Bluejays  don't 
scream  after  dark,"  and  that  settled  the  jay  question. 

At  this  time  Simpkins  was  perhaps  thirty-five  years 
old.  He  had  not  lived  near  Warrensburgh  long,  and 
moved  West  a  few  years  later,  and  I  lost  track  of  him. 
Memory  recalls  him  as  an  intelligent  farmer,  a  good 
hunter,  an  indifferent  fisherman,  and  a  good  friend  who 
helped  me  lie  about  that  deer,  for  which  let  us  hope  that 
both  he  and  I  have  been  forgiven,  and  that  the  recording 
angel,  as  in  the  case  of  "Uncle  Toby,"  after  recording  the 
sin  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  page  and  blotted  it  out  for- 
ever. 


COLONEL   CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND. 

TURTLES,  SETTERS  AND  DUCKS. 

THE  only  fishing  companion  of  earliest  boyhood 
with  whom  I  have  kept  in  touch  throughout  life, 
and  who  is  living  to-day,  is  the  subject  of  this 
sketch.  He  was  born  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  in  January,  1834, 
and  is  near  my  own  age.  He  frequently  visited  me  across 
the  river,  and  we  hunted  turtles  in  the  creeks  from  the  red 
mill  to  Quackendary  Hollow — pond  turtles,  snapping  tur- 
tles and  box  turtles — and  the  point  was  to  collect  as  many 
as  possible  and  try  to  train  them  to  race.  We  fished  a 
little  once  in  a  while,  but  to  Raymond  it  was  too  slow  and 
lacked  the  excitement  of  grabbing  turtles;  and  this  was 
characteristic  of  his  life  throughout.  As  a  fisherman  pure 
and  simple  he  would  never  have  achieved  fame.  He 
lacked  that  quality  of  patience  which  is  not  strained,  but 
droppeth  like  the  gentle  worm  overboard  when  it  is  the 
last  in  the  bait  box.  I  cared  little  to  fish  with  him  because 
of  this  lack  of  patience.  He  was  of  the  class  who  say, 
"Yes,  I  like  to  fish  if  they  bite  fast."  But  he  was  a  born 
hunter,  wing,  rifle  shot  and  "bird-dog"  man,  and  took  to 
setters  as  ducks  go  to  a  mill-pond. 

We  would  watch  old  John  Chase  lift  his  fyke  nets  in 
the  creek,  and  he  would  give  us  the  turtles  that  he  caught. 
We  would  stroll  down  the  Greenbush  bank,  past  old  Fort 
Crailo,  where  I  went  to  school,  and  watch  the  sturgeon 
jump  in  the  river.  Then  a  big  one  would  jump  every  few 
minutes ;  now  there  are  few,  if  any,  in  the  Hudson.  We 
went  back  of  the  nut  orchard  and  drank  the  strong  sul- 
phur water  from  Harrowgate  Spring,  which  we  often  talk 
of  to-day.  It  is  singular  that  we  never  went  shooting  to- 

79 


80  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

gether,  perhaps  because  his  ideas  of  sportsmanship  were 
higher  than  mine,  and  he  could  go  to  more  distant  and 
better  places  than  I;  but,  whatever  the  reason,  we  often 
talked  of  shooting,  but  never  shot  in  company;  yet  I  kept 
track  of  him  and  of  his  shooting  trips  in  various  parts  of 
the  country. 

While  still  a  small  boy — too  small  to  carry  the  smallest 
arms — he  followed  afield  such  sportsmen  as  the  late  Dr. 
Judson  and  his  pupil,  Alexander  Bullock,  of  West  Sand- 
lake,  Rensselaer  county,  N.  Y.,  in  admiration  of  their 
skillful  handling  of  the  Doctor's  slashing  English  setters, 
of  which  I  heard  much  at  that  time.  The  masterful  way 
in  which  those  adepts  in  the  art  of  wing  shooting  grassed 
the  plump  brown  woodcock,  which  they  flushed  in  front 
of  their  dogs  in  the  rich  coverts  that  lined  the  banks  of 
the  Wynantskill,  taught  him  lessons  in  that  "deliberate 
promptitude,"  so  dear  to  Frank  Forrester,  that  have  never 
been  forgotten.  As  he  grew  older  he  was  permitted  to 
accompany  these  sportsmen  and  shoot  with  them,  and  I 
heard  a  great  deal  of  these  trips  after  I  became  his  school- 
mate at  Professor  Anthony's,  with  the  late  Major  George 
S.  Dawson,  the  subject  of  a  sketch  in  this  series. 

The  first  field  dog  that  young  Raymond  owned  was  a 
setter  bred  by  Doctor  Judson,  called  Prince,  a  very  good 
dog  for  a  boy,  because  he  knew  the  ways  of  birds,  and,  as 
I  remember,  had  a  way  as  well  as  a  will  of  his  own.  His 
next — and  a  rare  good  one  it  grew  to  be — was  a  pointer 
from  my  Nell,  who  was  described  in  the  article  on  Port 
Tyler  as  a  pointer  whose  father  was  a  setter.  She  was 
stolen  from  me  and  recovered  by  my  father  after  I  left 
Albany,  and  he  bred  her  to  a  liver-colored  pointer  owned 
by  Mr.  Sawyer,  of  Albany,  and  gave  the  choice  of  the 
litter  to  his  nephew,  young  Raymond,  who  named  him 
Don  and  trained  him  to  a  perfection  that  was  rare  in  those 


COLONEL  CHAS.  H.  RAYMOND. 


COLONEL  CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND.  81 

days,  took  him  to  Michigan  and  shot  over  him,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  the  shooters  there,  who  had  never  seen  a  field  dog 
work  on  feathered  game  and  had  no  experience  of  wing 
shooting.  These  things  to  hear  I,  like  Desdemona,  would 
seriously  incline  in  after  years,  and  the  fame  of  my  Nell 
and  her  progeny  seemed  partly  mine.  Young  Raymond 
gave  Don  to  his  friend,  Harry  Palmer,  in  1856,  and  shot 
over  him  again  two  years  later.  After  Mr.  Palmer's  death 
Don  was  sold  at  auction  for  $50,  a  very  high  price  for  a 
bird  dog  in  Michigan  at  that  time.  I  had  given  Nell  such 
training  as  she  had.  My  boyish  knowledge  of  dog  train- 
ing must  have  been  crude,  although  I  did  not  suspect  it 
at  the  time,  for  I  had  read  Youatt,  Frank  Forrester  and 
other  authors,  and  had  seen  some  bird  dogs  work,  and 
thought,  boylike,  that  I  knew  it  all;  but  Nell  was  not 
broken  to  suit  the  fastidious  taste  of  Master  Raymond. 
He  next  bred  her  to  the  famous  Pumpelly  pointer,  and 
then  to  a  club-tailed  pointer  owned  by  a  man  named  Ma- 
guire,  and  one  of  the  litter  was  a  beautifully  coated  liver- 
colored  setter,  the  first  one  in  four  litters  that  showed  the 
blood  of  her  sire,  James  Bleecker's  well-known  setter. 
This  puppy,  Fifine,  Mr.  Raymond  gave  to  Monsieur 
Pierre  Delpit,  his  fencing  master,  in  1859. 

It  was  in  Jackson  county,  Michigan,  where  Mr.  Ray- 
mond and  Don  surprised  the  natives,  and  the  woodcock 
and  game  of  all  kinds  abounded  there.  Mr.  R.  learned 
to  track  the  deer  amid  the  oak  openings,  through  the 
mossy  swamps  around  Vineyard  Lake  and  alongthe  wind- 
ings of  Raisin  River.  Here  the  early  lessons  of  old  "Un- 
cle Henry"  Harris,  the  famous  hunter  of  Lake  George, 
who  taught  the  boy  to  "shute  rifil,"  found  their  academy 
of  graduation,  and  thereafter,  so  long  as  eyes  held  their 
own,  Charles  could  look  with  confidence  along  the  sights 
of  a  rifle  at  moving  game.  We  had  drifted  far  apart  until 


82  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

my  return  in  1860  from  a  six  years'  tramp,  and  we  no 
more  lured  the  sunfish  from  the  creeks,  nor  held  disputes 
over  the  species,  age  or  other  things  appertaining  to  tur- 
tles and  tortoises.  We  left  the  frogs  to  be  stoned  by 
younger  boys,  and  contented  ourselves  with  reminis- 
cences of  our  mighty  deeds,  the  only  difference  of  opin- 
ion, then  and  to-day,  being  the  question  which  of  us  it 
was  that  attempted  to  jump  a  stream  and  changed  his 
mind  when  half  way  across  and  stuck  in  the  mud.  I  still 
believe  it  was  Charles. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  undertaken  long  journeyings 
abroad,  and  save  a  chamois  hunt  in  Switzerland,  with  its 
climbing,  sliding,  crevasse  leaping  and  glacier  scram- 
bling, there  was  no  shooting  for  two  years.  After  wan- 
dering through  Germany  and  Italy,  living  on  foot  for 
months  along  the  valleys  and  on  the  mountains  of  Switz- 
erland, he  went  back  to  France  and  made  his  home  in  the 
Latin  Quarter  of  Paris,  along  about  in  Trilby's  time ;  and 
if  he  failed  to  meet  Little  Billee,  I  know  by  what  he  has 
told  me  that  he  must  have  been  on  friendly  terms  with 
Zoo  Zou  and  the  Laird,  for  he  knew  all  the  pretty  songs 
mentioned  or  hinted  at  in  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  truthful  re- 
cital of  life  "in  the  Quarter,"  and  from  conversation  with 
him  within  the  year  I  gained  the  impression  that  he  even 
knows  the  fourth  and  expurgated  verse  of  "Au  Clair  de  la 
Lune"  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  returned  to  his  native  land 
with  the  ripened  experience  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a 
mind  well  stored  not  only  with  the  literature  of  various 
countries,  but  enriched  by  that  contact  with  the  people  of 
those  lands  which  only  travel  afoot  can  give. 

After  his  return  the  Insurance  Department  of  the 
State  of  New  York  was  being  organized  by  the  Hon. 
William  Barnes,  superintendent.  Mr.  Raymond  was  ap- 
pointed to  a  clerkship  in  that  office,  from  which  he  rose  to 


COLONEL  CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND.  83 

succeed  the  Hon.  James  W.  Husted  as  deputy  superin- 
tendent of  the  department.  While  thus  engaged  he  be- 
came a  member  of  the  Albany  Zouave  Cadets,  a  fine  body 
of  citizen  soldiers,  which  was  afterward  merged  into  the 
Tenth  Regiment  New  York  State  National  Guard,  as 
Company  A.  Then  came  the  war,  when  men  left  the 
farm,  the  store  and  the  workshop  to  hasten  to  preserve  the 
Union.  The  Tenth  Regiment  volunteered,  was  recruited 
to  the  full  standard  and  mustered  into  the  U.  S.  service  as 
the  1 77th  N.  Y.  Volunteers,  and  on  its  rolls  was  "Charles 
H.  Raymond,  first  lieutenant,  Company  A."  The  regi- 
ment was  assigned  to  the  Department  of  the  Gulf,  under 
General  N.  P.  Banks.  Just  before  the  siege  of  Port  Hud- 
son he  was  appointed  aide-de-camp  on  the  staff  of  General 
F.  S.  Nickerson,  and  later  was  made  Assistant  Adjutant- 
General  on  the  brigade  staff. 

All  through  that  weary  siege,  lying  in  the  trenches  in 
a  swampy  country  which  filled  the  hospitals  with  mias- 
matic patients,  Colonel  Raymond  was  at  his  post  of  duty, 
even  when,  as  his  comrade,  Colonel  David  A.  Teller,  told 
me,  he  had  been  positively  ordered  to  the  hospital ;  and  in 
the  first  assault  on  the  works,  May  27,  1863,  was  again  at 
his  post,  although  hardly  able  to  stand.  Looking  over 
one  of  his  war-time  letters  this  sentence  is  found:  "This 
campaigning  with  field  men  and  field  guns,  but  without 
field  dogs,  Inter  arma  silent  canes,  which,  being  inter- 
preted, means  that  when  men  go  afield  to  shoot  each  other 
pointers  are.  no  longer  to  the  point,  and  setters  get  a  set- 
back. These  are  not  the  dogs  of  war." 

While  in  the  field  Colonel  Raymond  could  not  entirely 
sink  the  sportsman  in  the  soldier,  for  in  writing  to  me  of 
the  second  assault  on  Port  Hudson  he  said:  "You  cannot 
think  how  sad  and  strange  sounded  the  whistling  of  the 
quail  in  the  fields  over  which  our  brigade  charged  on  that 


84  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

fateful  June  14,  and  how  that  weird  whistle  seemed  to  ex- 
ult over  men  who,  with  empty  guns,  were  rushing  forward 
to  glory  and  the  grave."  A  little  more  than  a  year  ago  he 
again  visited  that  battlefield;  again  heard  the  whistling  of 
the  merry  Bob  Whites,  descendants  of  those  birds  of  1863, 
and  received  from  the  proprietor  of  the  plantation — the 
son  of  the  owner  at  the  time  of  the  battle — a  cordial  invi- 
tation to  come  down  when  the  season  opened  and  shoot 
in  peace  over  the  field  where  his  men  had  shot  in  war  some 
thirty  years  before.  Verily  the  whirligig  of  time  brings 
wondrous  changes,  as  well  as  revenges ! 

With  the  return  of  peace  the  Colonel  went  back  to  his 
former  position  in  the  Insurance  Department  of  the  State, 
and  to  the  dogs.  He  bred  a  good  and  serviceable  line  of 
setters  from  the  native  strains  of  Mr.  Truax,  of  Albany, 
N.  Y.,  and  of  General  William  J.  Sewell,  of  Cape  May, 
Colonel  E.  M.  Quimby,  of  Morristown,  and  Mr.  Theo- 
dore Morford,  of  Newton,  all  in  the  sporting  State  of  New 
Jersey.  With  these  dogs  he  established  the  kennels  of 
Fox  Farm,  near  Morristown,  N.  J. 

In  the  early  '705  Mr.  Raymond  entered  into  partner- 
ship with  Mr.  John  A.  Little,  the  general  agent  of  the 
Mutual  Life  Insurance  Company  for  New  York  City. 
Later  on,  when  Mr.  Little  retired  from  business,  Mr.  R. 
assumed  sole  charge  of  the  Mutual  Life's  metropolitan 
agency,  which  includes  Long  Island  and  Staten  Island,  a 
position  which  he  retains  to-day.  In  1890  he  was  elected 
to  the  presidency  of  the  National  Association  of  Life  Un- 
derwriters, and  few  men  are  wrider  known  or  have  more 
warm  personal  friends  than  the  genial  and  cultured  gen- 
tleman who  is  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  of  whom  a  writer 
once  said:  "The  fine  and  distinctive  personality  of  Mr. 
Raymond  is  what  makes  him  what  he  is.  We  might 
sweep  away  all  business  details,  and  all  that  men  know 


COLONEL  CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND.  So 

and  value  in  him  would  remain  ineradicably  stamped 
upon  the  memory  and  embalmed  in  the  affections  of  those 
who  call  him  friend.  A  joyous  temperament,  luminous 
intellect,  almost  inerrant  sagacity,  forceful  initiative,  wo- 
manly tenderness,  brilliancy,  wit,  courage  and  generosity 
were  blended  in  the  alembic  from  which  his  nature  was 
evolved.  Learned  in  the  literature  of  books  and  in  the 
lore  of  field  sports  and  the  natural  kingdom;  a  poet,  a 
sportsman,  a  soldier  and  a  mathematician ;  suggestive,  in- 
centive, steadfast  and  true,  such  is  the  man  as  he  is  known 
to  the  editor  of  this  journal  and  to  those  who  know  him 
better."  As  the  editor  of  the  Insurance  Times  has  de- 
scribed Colonel  Raymond  so  much  better  than  I  could, 
and  in  fewer  words,  I  am  content  to  quote  him  and  not  to 
attempt  to  improve  on  his  concise  and  truthful  descrip- 
tion. 

In  1874  Mr.  Edward  Laverack,  of  Shropshire,  Eng- 
land, offered  for  sale  two  of  his  most  famous  setters,  Pride 
of  the  Border  and  Fairy.  These  were  sought  for  by  sev- 
eral sportsmen  both  here  and  abroad,  and  after  some  cor- 
respondence their  breeder  decided  to  sell  them  to  Colonel 
Raymond,  who  at  once  arranged  for  their  importation 
and  transportation  to  Fox  Farm.  This  was  the  first  pair 
of  that  renowned  and  highly-bred  strain  of  setters  sent 
from  Mr.  Laverack's  kennels  to  America,  and  their  pres- 
ence in  this  country  excited  much  attention  among  sports- 
men and  in  the  sportsmen's  press,  both  here  and  abroad, 
in  England  and  on  the  Continent.  Fairy  was  a  great 
beauty  and  a  natural  fielder,  staunch  on  the  point  and  at 
backing,  with  great  pace,  fine  nose  and  grand  staying 
qualities.  Pride  of  the  Border  at  first  seemed  puzzled  at 
both  the  scent  and  the  habits  of  our  quail  and  ruffed 
grouse,  but  after  a  short  experience  on  both  he  showed 
extraordinary  intelligence  and  brain  power  in  working 


86  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

on  his  birds,  and  was  a  most  admirable  and  satisfactory 
field  dog,  working  on  game  as  closely  and  knowingly  as 
a  man  could  do  if  he  had  a  dog's  form  and  faculties. 
Neither  of  these  Laverack  setters  retrieved  game,  but  they 
made  a  rattling  brace  on  a  snipe  meadow,  backing  on 
sight  at  any  distance,  absolutely  staunch  on  point  and 
dropping  in  good  old-fashioned  style  to  wing  or  shot. 
They  still  live  in  loving  memory  of  many  human  hearts, 
and  their  strain,  crossed  with  the  Morford  stock,  is  still 
carefully  bred;  its  inherited  physical  and  mental  qualities 
and  capabilities,  the  resultants  of  generations  of  selection, 
training  and  association,  making  these  canines  as  thor- 
ough workers  in  the  field  as  they  are  affectionate  and  in- 
telligent friends  and  companions  at  home.  They  are  so 
human  that  it  is  often  said  of  them,  "They  think  them- 
selves folks,"  and  the  best  in  the  house,  be  it  window-seat, 
lounge  or  hearth-rug,  is  never  too  good,  in  their  own  way 
of  taking  it,  for  these  two  comprehensive  and  compre- 
hending members  of  the  family.  Nevertheless,  unlike 
Squire  Kayse's  famous  pointer  Lee,  of  Sussex  county,  N. 
J.,  these  setters  can't  catch  fish  with  hook  and  line,  and  if 
they  have  occupied  much  space  in  this  narrative  it  is  be- 
cause they  deserve  it.  No  sketch  of  Colonel  Raymond 
would  be  complete  without  an  extended  notice  of  this  im- 
portation of  some  of  the  best  blooded  setters  of  England, 
and  of  their  having  been  bred  to  some  of  the  native  stock, 
for  which  American  lovers  of  high-class  setters  will  ever 
be  under  obligations  to  Colonel  Charles  H.  Raymond. 

During  the  period  that  the  Fox  Farm  Kennels  were  in 
existence  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  a  guest  of  the  proprietor 
and  to  talk  bird  dog  as  well  as  turtles  with  him,  while  pick- 
ing the  wing  of  a  partridge  at  his  table.  I  have  long  since 
forgiven  him  for  saying  that  Nell  was  imperfectly  broken 
and  would  not  "back  a  point."  Of  course  she  would  not 


COLONEL  CHARLES  H.  RAYMOND.  87 

back,  because  she  never  hunted  with  another  dog  until  he 
had  her.  How  could  she?  That  is  not  just  what  trou- 
bled me.  There  was  an  insinuation  that  at  eighteen  years 
old  I  could  not  train  a  bird  dog  to  perfection.  That  thing 
tasted  sour  forty  years  ago,  but  to-day  it  looks  as  if  my 
cousin  Charles  may  have  been  right. 

It  is  many  years  since  I  have  cared  to  shoot  anything 
except  ducks,  which  come  to  hand  dead.  I  have  grown 
tender-hearted,  and  say,  with  lago,  "Though  in  the  trade 
of  war  I  have  slain  men,"  yet  I  have  cried  over  a  doe 
whose  fore-shoulders  I  had  broken,  and  refused  to  shoot 
more  when  my  retriever  brought  a  live  quail  to  be  killed 
by  hand.  Therefore  fishing  came  to  be  the  more  enjoya- 
ble sport,  because  there  was  no  regret  when  the  lower 
form  of  life  was  taken,  no  keen  suffering,  because  of  a 
lower  nervous  system;  but  there  is  always  a  latent  interest 
in  any  kind  of  sport  in  which  a  man  has  once  engaged. 
To  prove  this  it  is  only  necessary  to  point  to  the  fact  that 
Colonel  Raymond  still  has  a  faint  liking  for  fishing.  Not 
for  the  kind  which  we  had  in  boyhood,  for  it  is  possible 
that  a  pond  full  of  painted  and  spotted  tortoises,  or  a  pool 
full  of  frogs  with  an  assortment  of  stones  at  hand,  would 
hardly  be  attractive  to  him  to-day.  He  is  blase  on  turtles, 
frogs  and  sunfish,  and  needs  more  exciting  game  and  a 
broader  field.  He  fishes  occasionally,  incidentally,  as  it 
were,  when  nothing  better  offers  in  the  way  of  sport.. 
Every  June  he  visits,  as  a  guest,  Camp  Albany  on  the 
Restigouche  River,  and  there  he  occasionally  casts  for, 
and  even  occasionally  lands,  a  fine  salmon;  but  I  fancy  he 
does  this  in  a  perfunctory  way,  because  there  is  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  How  I  would  like  to  stand  on  the  bank 
and  criticise  his  fly-casting,  and  thereby  get  revenge  for 
his  remarks  on  the  training  of  Nell! 

The  owners  of  Camp  Albany  are  Messrs.  Dudley  Ol- 


88  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

cutt  and  Abram  Lansing,  of  Albany,  N.  Y.,  two  skilled 
and  accomplished  salmon  anglers,  learned  in  all  the  in- 
tricate lore  of  that  grand  art;  but  it  can  hardly  be  possible 
that  Colonel  Raymond,  lacking,  as  he  is,  in  that  virtue  of 
patience  which  alone  bears  good  results  to  the  angler,  can 
profit  by  their  precepts  and  example;  yet  he  occasionally 
sends  a  fine  salmon  to  a  friend,  and  as  Colonel  Olcutt  and 
Mr.  Lansing  both  say  that  he  actually  catches  them,  I  am 
certain  that  he  does ;  and  the  fact  that  there  are  no  bullet 
holes  in  them  proves  that  his  Jock-Scott,  silver-doctor,  or 
other  combination  of  hair,  fur,  feathers  and  steel  can  be 
cast  by  my  friend  with  occasional  effect. 

Later,  in  November,  and  on  the  ducking  shore,  it  is 
different.  Then  the  gallant  Colonel  is  himself  again,  and 
no  doubt  returns  the  compliment  to  his  friends  of  Camp 
Albany  and  sets  them  a  pace  which  may  worry  them  to 
follow.  Shooting  from  a  blind,  over  decoys — that  truly 
Presidential  sport,  the  great  delight  of  the  sportsman  of 
or  past  middle  age,  when  the  long  tramp  over  hill  and 
through  marsh  after  pointer  or  setter  seems  now  to  re- 
quire more  exertion  than  it  did  in  youth — has  a  fascina- 
tion for  Mr.  Raymond,  and  a  better  appointed  shooting- 
box  than  his  at  San  Domingo,  on  the  Gunpowder  River, 
I  fancy  would  be  hard  to  find;  and  few,  indeed,  are  the 
places  where  better  sport  has  been  found.  But  duck 
shooting,  like  all  other  earthly  joys,  must  have  its  day  and 
fade  away.  Each  year  the  ducks  are  fewer  and  their 
flights  further  between,  so  that  ere  many  more  years  in 
their  turn  shall  have  flown  the  canvasbacks  and  redheads 
will  have  gone  to  join  the  once  countless  flocks  of  passen- 
ger pigeons  and  the  innumerable  caravans  of  the  bisons, 
"and  the  places  that  knew  them,"  throughout  our  broad 
land,  from  Alaska  to  Florida,  "shall  know  them  no  more 
forever." 


THE   BROCKWAY   BOYS. 

MICHIGAN   IN   '49 — MY   FIRST  TURKEY. 

THERE  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  them.  The  woods 
were  literally  full  of  them — of  Brockway  boys,  I 
mean.  Boys,  and  girls  also,  from  babies  to  men 
and  women,  they  were  everywhere  I  went.  This  ceased 
to  be  surprising  after  my  uncle,  Erastus  Brockway,  had 
driven  mother  and  me  from  Monroe  to  his  home  at  East 
Ogden,  in  Lenawee  county,  Mich.,  and  after  crossing  the 
county  line  pointed  out  each  house  for  miles  as  being 
owned  by  one  of  "his  numerous  kinsmen,  until  it  seemed 
to  my  boyish  fancy  that  all  Michigan  must  be  peopled  by 
Brockways. 

The  fact  is  that  mother's  two  brothers,  older  than  she, 
had  emigrated  to  Michigan  in  the  early  thirties,  while  it 
was  yet  a  territory;  each  had  a  large  family,  and  at  this 
time  they  had  grandsons  older  than  I,  for  their  many  sons 
had  followed  the  parental  example  in  the  matter  of  replen- 
ishing the  earth. 

Mother  was  an  invalid,  and  the  journey  from  Albany 
to  Buffalo  was  made  by  canal,  and  from  the  latter  place  to 
Monroe  by  steamer.  The  packets  which  carried  'passen- 
gers on  the  canal  had  been  about  killed  off  by  the  railroad, 
and  we  had  good  quarters  in  a  large  freight  boat,  the  cap- 
tain giving  up  his  cabin  to  us  and  a  woman  with  two  boys. 
It  was  an  ideal  trip.  In  1875  I  had  frequent  occasion  to 
go  from  Lynchburg  to  Lexington,  Va.,  up  the  James 
River  and  Kenawha  Canal,  and  it  is  my  mature  opinion 


90  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

that  traveling  by  canal  is  the  very  poetry  of  traveling;  it  is 
the  ideal  mode  of  getting  about.  This  statement  is  often 
met  with  ridicule — "it  is  too  slow."  My  friend,  listen: 
You  who  say  this  know  little  of  the  pleasure  of  travel  for 
itself.  You  wish  to  annihilate  space  in  a  business-like 
way;  you  want  to  go  from  New  York  to  Chicago,  and 
consult  the  time-tables  for  the  train  which  will  land  you 
there  an  hour  sooner  than  another,  and  you  take  a 
"sleeper" — that  abomination  rendered  necessary  by  mer- 
ciless business! — and  you  go  that  way  even  on  your  wed- 
ding trip !  Go  to !  The  mad  American  train-catching  spirit 
has  possessed  you,  and,  like  my  friend,  Col.  Raymond,  of 
my  last  sketch,  you  "can  fish  if  they  bite  fast."  The  pleas- 
ures of  that  week  on  the  Erie  Canal  often  arise  as  I  whirl 
over  the  route  in  late  years.  Little  Falls !  There  we  boys 
jumped  ashore  and  stole  apples  and  caught  the  boat  at  the 
locks.  Weedsport!  Here  we  got  off  on  the  "heel-path" 
side  and  ran  into  the  outlying  edge  of  Montezuma  Swamp 
and  had  to  swim  the  canal,  when  I  was  the  only  good 
swimmer,  and,  after  carrying  all  the  clothes  across  and 
safely  landing  the  smallest  boy,  was  forced  to  lick  the 
older  one  in  the  water  to  keep  him  from  drowning  me. 
His  story  to  his  mother  conflicted  with  mine;  his  black- 
ened eyes  and  swollen  nose  seemed  to  prove  his  claim  to 
have  been  beaten  without  provocation,  but  mothers  will 
be  mothers,  you  know,  and  there  was  a  drop  in  the  social 
mercury. 

Pardon  me;  the  canal  took  me  off  into  the  swamp, 
miles  away  from  the  Brock-way.  I  will  try  to  get  back 
to  the  Brockway  boys,  as  I  knew  my  cousins  and  sons  of 
cousins  away  back  in  Michigan  in  the  long  ago. 

Jim  was  a  big  boy — nearly  a  man.  He  could  not  only 
smoke  a  cigar,  but  could  also  empty  a  clay  pipe  without 
any  visible  protest  from  his  stomach.  He  was  big  and 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS.  91 

strong,  and  could  beat  us  all  at  jumping,  and  was  one  of 
the  younger  sons  of  the  oldest  of  the  brothers,  Eusebius, 
or  Uncle  Sebe,  as  he  was  called — a  man  who,  at  sixty-nine 
years  of  age,  was  entered 'for  a  foot-race  the  first  day  I 
saw  him.  Martin  and  Oliver  were  smaller  boys,  sons  of 
Erastus,  who,  by  the  way,  was  many  years  younger  than 
his  brother,  physically  much  weaker,  but  intellectually 
stronger.  Jim  could  throw  me  by  sheer  weight  and 
strength;  Clark  or  the  others  of  his  age  could  not,  for 
wrestling  and  boxing  had  been  my  study  as  well  as  play. 
This  put  me  on  a  good  square  footing  with  my  backwoods 
cousins,  who  had  little  respect  for  my  soft  hands  and  city 
ways.  They  had  small  facilities  for  schooling,  but  great 
opportunities  for  clearing  land  for  the  plough,  chopping 
trees  that  had  been  deadened  by  the  girdle,  piling  great 
logs  for  burning  that  a  few  years  later  would  have  been 
worth  more  than  the  land  originally  cost.  Harvesting 
the  hard-earned  crops  had  given  them  a  rude  strength 
that  made  it  seem  incomprehensible  how  a  city  boy,  who 
couldn't  pitch  a  fork  full  of  hay  into  the  mow,  could  lay 
them  on  their  backs.  From  a  subject  for  ridicule  this 
city  boy  came  to  be  respected,  especially  when  they  found 
that  he  could  turn  a  back  somersault  from  the  floor  and 
alight  on  his  feet.  They  had  seen  pictures  of  such  things, 
but  to  find  an  ordinary  boy  outside  a  circus  turn  a  flip- 
flap  was  a  thing  that  made  him  a  hero.  My  city  manners 
and  fine  fishing  tackle  were  all  forgotten,  and  the  Brock- 
way  boys  from  far  and  near  were  invited  to  come  and  see 
their  cousin,  who  in  a  few  hours  had  overcome  all  preju- 
dice and  was  voted  to  be  a  really  decent  fellow. 

Said  Jim:  "Let's  go  a-fishin';  what  yer  say?  We'll  take 
a  team  and  wagon  and  go  over  to  the  River  Raisin  and 
have  a  good  time — yes?"  And  we  went,  about  six  of  us. 
There  was  William,  twenty-eight  years  old,  a  hunter  of 


92  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

deer  and  turkeys,  who  owned  a  rifle  that  became  mine 
some  years  later;  Jim,  Martin,  Oliver,  Mathew  and 
others  whose  names  are  forgotten,  but  all  brothers,  cou- 
sins or  uncles  to  each  other,  and  a  jolly  party  they  were. 
Harvest  was  over,  and  threshing,  corn-husking  and  such 
work  had  not  begun;  just  the  time  for  a  fishing  trip.  An 
early  start  and  a  drive  of  ten  miles  behind  a  good  team 
brought  us  to  the  house  of  another  relative — for,  as  before 
said,  the  woods  were  full  of  Brockways.  The  team  was 
cared  for,  and  a  walk  of  half  an  hour  brought  us  to  the 
river.  They  cut  poles  and  rigged  up  their  lines  with  float 
and  sinker  and  with  worms  for  bait.  They  had  said  that 
the  river  contained  pickerel,  and  I  tied  on  some  very  small 
hooks  and  with  a  little  switch  caught  several  minnows 
while  they  were  taking  a  few  catfish,  sunfish  and  others. 
Grins  went  around,  and  Martin  asked:  "Is  that  the  kind 
o'  fishin'  you  do  down  in  York  State?" 

"Yes,  sometimes." 

"It  'pears  like  small  kind  o'  fishin',"  said  Jim;  "don't 
ye  ever  ketch  bigger  fish  'n  that  when  you  go  a-fishin' 
'bout  Albany?" 

"Yes,  sometimes." 

"Mighty  small  eatin',  them  things,"  said  another; 
"guess  you've  got  to  get  yer  specs  on  to  see  'em  when 
they're  cooked.  I  wouldn't  take  'em  home  if  you'd  gi' 
me  a  cartload.  Here,  take  my  pole  an'  fish  for  fish  that's 
worth  having." 

By  this  time  there  were  half  a  dozen  live  minnows  in 
the  little  water-hole  scooped  in  the  bank,  and,  reaching 
for  my  pole,  I  bent  on  about  twenty  feet  of  line  a  fair-sized 
hook  with  a  gimp  snell — another  new  thing  to  the  boys — 
and  hooking  a  minnow  through  the  lips  I  cast  and  skit- 
tered it,  a  trick  learned  from  Old  Port  Tyler  on  the  Pop- 
skinny  in  the  spring  before.  All  except  William,  the  old- 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS.  93 

est  "boy,"  haw-hawed  out  loud;  he  simply  watched  the 
curious  performance.  Cast  after  cast  was  made,  when  a 
garfish  took  the  lure  and  was  landed — a  strange  fish  to 
me,  but  no  stranger  to  the  others,  who  with  one  accord 
voted  him  "no  good."  They  had  all  stopped  to  watch 
this  way  of  fishing,  which  now  was  proved  capable  of  tak- 
ing a  gar  at  least,  but  when  a  pickerel  of  about  eighteen 
inches  long  came  in  it  was  my  moment  of  triumph.  If 
this  (to  them)  crazy  mode  of  fishing  had  not  been  a  suc- 
cess that  morning  ridicule  would  have  been  my  portion. 
I  had  known  that  from  the  remarks  at  the  beginning,  so, 
turning  around,  I  said :  "Yes,  Jim,  we  often  catch  bigger 
fish  than  that  when  we  go  a-fishin'  about  Albany;"  and 
William,  who  had  said  nothing,  borrowed  a  hook  on  gimp 
and  arranged  to  skitter,  while  Martin  and  Jim  went  catch- 
ing minnows  for  the  same  purpose.  When  you  beat  a 
man  or  boy  at  a  game  he  thinks  peculiarly  his  own,  he 
suddenly  develops  a  respect  for  your  abilities — perhaps 
beyond  their  real  deserts. 

William  and  others  took  some  good  fish  by  skittering, 
and  altogether  we  had  a  fine  lot,  something  like  two  hun- 
dred pounds  of  fish,  many  strange  kinds  to  me,  including 
pickerel  (pike,  we  call  them  now),  suckers,  a  strange 
green  sunfish,  a  strange  catfish,  as  well  as  the  familiar 
bullhead  and  the  common  yellow  perch.  There  was  also 
a  "dogfish,"  strange  in  that  day,  and,  stranger  still,  this 
last-named  fish  and  the  gars  were  said  to  be  uneatable.  I 
had  supposed  that  all  fresh-water  fishes  were  eatable,  even 
the  suckers  in  winter,  only,  like  the  beer  story,  "some's 
better  'n  others."  We  were  all  learning.  When  the 
whole  catch  was  collected  it  was  divided  into  as  many 
parts  as  there  were  houses  to  be  passed  on  the  road  home, 
some  fifteen  or  twenty,  and  strings  arranged  to  be  left  at 
each,  with  a  special  one  containing  choice  kinds  for  a 


94  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

widow,  and  we  rattled  home  in  short  time  under  a  full 
moon. 

Going  among  people  whose  whole  life,  training  and 
mode  of  thought  is  different  from  my  own  has  not  been 
an  uncommon  thing,  but  this  first  experience  was  new, 
and  at  times  annoying.  I  felt  as  a  dime  museum  freak 
must  feel,  if  he  does  feel.  Interest  in  such  things  as 
changing  autumn  foliage,  the  form  of  a  passing  flock  of 
wild  geese  or  the  strange  appearance  of  clouds,  seemed 
to  my  backwoods  cousins  to  be  silly;  these  things  had 
never  occurred  to  them  as  worthy  of  thought  because 
they  were  every-day  affairs,  and  to-day  I  know  that  a  boy 
who  has  to  turn  out  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  milk 
the  cows,  feed  the  horses  and  pigs,  and  get  ready  to  hoe 
corn  after  breakfast  has  no  eye  for  the  beauty  of  a  sunrise 
any  more  than  he  has  for  a  glorious  sunset  after  a  hard 
day's  ploughing,  when  the  horses  have  to  be  cared  for, 
and  all  those  things  which  a  farmer  calls  "chores" — not 
work,  by  any  means — have  to  be  done  before  he  eats  his 
supper  and  crawls  to  bed,  only  to  be  awakened  before 
nature  tells  him  that  he  has  slept  enough.  Yes,  to-day 
it  is  plain  why  the  city  boy  was  a  "freak."  He  had  no 
"chores"  to  do  at  home.  He  could  breakfast  at  eight,  go 
to  school  at  nine,  and  after  four  o'clock  he  had  leisure  to 
observe  the  change  of  foliage,  the  flight  of  wild  geese  and 
the  colors  of  the  sky  at  sunset.  On  Saturdays  he  could 
shoot  and  fish,  and  there  was  a  six  weeks'  vacation  when 
the  only  things  he  had  to  obey  were  his  instincts. 

Lenawee  county  was  marshy  in  many  places.  It  was 
the  source  of  water  flowing  east  into  Lake  Erie,  west  into 
Lake  Michigan,  and  south  into  Ohio.  The  country  was 
heavily  timbered,  and  the  phlebotomizing  mosquito  was 
abroad  in  the  land.  We  boys  slept  in  the  barn  to  avoid 
them.  Boys  came  from  nearby  houses  for  the  frolic  in 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS.  95 

the  hay,  old  and  young  boys,  sometimes  a  dozen  or  more. 
Uncle  Erastus  did  not  object  to  their  sleeping  there,  but 
did  forbid  card  playing;  whether  he  objected  to  cards  at  all 
times  or  only  to  the  lights  necessary  to  their  use  among 
his  hay  we  did  not  know.  One  day,  after  a  little  talk  lead- 
ing that  way  as  we  sat  in  the  house,  he  said:  "I  suppose 
the  boys  have  a  game  of  cards  once  in  a  while  in  the 
barn?"  this  in  an  inquiring  sort  of  way. 

"They  couldn't  play  cards  in  the  dark/'  I  answered; 
"they'd  have  to  have  lights  for  that.  There !  What  was- 
that  big  bird  that  passed  the  window?"  and  I  ran  out  to 
see. 

The  next  day  mother  said:  "Fred,  did  you  find  out 
what  kind  of  a  bird  it  was  passed  the  window  when  your 
uncle  asked  you  about  playing  cards  in  the  barn?" 

"No,  ma'am;  it  was  gone " 

"Yes,  it  was  probably  gone  before  you  saw  it;  but  I'm 
glad  that  you  did  not  tell  on  the  boys  nor  lie  to  your 
uncle.  Do  they  play  cards  there  nights?" 

"Yes'm,  but  William  said  not  to  tell  uncle,  and  Jim 
threatened  to  lick  me  if  I  did,  and  I  hope  he  won't  ask  me 
any  more.  I'll  lie  to  him  if  he  does." 

"No,  you  mustn't  lie  to  any  one,  and  I  am  glad  you  told 
the  truth  to  me.  I  knew  they  played  cards  and  had  can- 
dles there,  for  I  saw  the  light  through  a  crack  that  their 
blankets  did  not  cover,  as  I  walked  out  last  evening." 

Oliver  had  heard  this  and  said  afterward:  "Golly!  but 
you  got  out  of  that  scrape  nicely;  if  you  had  told  your 
mother  the  boys  didn't  play  cards  in  the  barn  she'd  'a'  had 
you,  sure." 

"Well,  Oliver,  I  was  in  a  corner,  but  I  never  tell 
mother  a  thing  that  is  not  so,  nor  father  either,  and  I  try 
to  be  truthful  all  the  time,  but  it's  hard  work  sometimes. 
There  was  no  other  way  to  dodge  your  father  than  to  see 


96  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

a  big  bird  and  run  out,  but  before  that  I  fear  that  what  I 
said  was  almost  a  fib,  but  I  wouldn't  tell  on  the  boys." 

"That's  all  right.  Martin  wants  to  know  when  you 
want  to  go  after  the  blind  snipe  we  started  the  other  day. 
What  was  it  you  called  'em?" 

"Woodcock ;  say  to-morrow." 

"O.  K.;  there's  a  spaniel  over  at  Uncle  Sebe's  that 
William  trees  pa'tridges  with ;  don't  know  how  he'll  do  on 
these  birds ;  nobody  shoots  'em  here.  I  never  saw  more'n 
three  or  four  in  my  life,  and  never  thought  they  were 
plenty." 

The  spaniel  was  not  a  promising  dog  for  the  work,  but 
we  started.  In  the  talk  about  woodcock  shooting  some- 
thing was  said  about  shooting  them  on  the  wing,  and 
Martin  almost  shouted :  "What !  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  shoot  'em  a-flyin'?"  And  here  again  was  a  surprise; 
but  the  success  of  skittering  for  pickerel  was  in  mind,  and 
there  was  no  ridicule,  but  an  amount  of  curiosity  to  see 
the  thing  done.  Such  a  thing  had  never  been  heard  of, 
and  on  a  small  scale  it  resembled  the  experience  of 
Colonel  Raymond  in  an  adjoining  county  a  year  or  two 
later.  I  had  William's  light  double  gun,  and  Clark  car- 
ried a  single  one,  while  Oliver  was  to  look  after  the  dog. 
When  we  reached  the  bog  where  we  had  kicked  up  a  bird 
before  when  crossing  it,  Oliver  started  with  the  dog  to 
try  and  quarter  the  ground  somehow,  as  I  had  explained 
to  him;  but  it  was  queer  work,  for  Dick  had  no  idea  of 
woodcock,  and  being  used  to  ranging  out  of  sight  for 
ruffed  grouse,  and  barking  to  call  his  master  when  he 
found  one,  we  had  hard  work  to  keep  him  in  sight.  Mar- 
tin kicked  up  a  bird,  and  I  fired  and  missed  it;  but  as  it 
dropped  behind  some  bushes  he  insisted  that  it  dropped 
dead.  He  had  a  long  cord  in  his  pocket,  and  proposed 
to  tie  Dick  and  keep  him  with  us,  and  as  Oliver  was  bring- 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS.  97 

ing  the  dog  he  flushed  one  that  came  our  way  and  I  killed 
it.  The  boys  thought  this  wonderful  and  the  bird  the 
strangest  they  had  ever  seen. 

"What's  his  eyes  doin'  in  the  back  of  his  head?"  asked 
Oliver. 

"That's  so's  to  see  who's  a-comin'  after  him  when  he's 
feedin',"  explained  Clark;  "and  he  can  see  good,  too,  and 
don't  scare  up  till  he  thinks  you're  going  to  step  on  him. 
Say,  I'll  tell  what  let's  do.  Let's  all  three  and  the  dog 
walk  abreast  an'  kick  'em  up.  What  d'ye  say?" 

This  seemed  to  be  a  good  proposition,  for  the  dog  was 
of  no  use,  and  we  tried  it  with  better  result  than  I  ex- 
pected, for  we  succeeded  in  putting  up  eleven  birds  that 
morning,  of  which  I  killed  five,  Oliver  retrieving  them 
almost  as  soon  as  they  were  down,  with  the  help  of  Dick, 
for  the  dog  soon  learned  what  we  were  after  and  was  a 
fair  retriever.  The  boys  told  of  that  morning's  work  with 
great  pride,  never  failing  to  add:  "An'  he  killed  'em  all 
a-flyin'." 

On  the  way  home  one  of  the  boys  shot  a  big  blue 
heron  which  was  standing  in  meditation  by  a  marshy 
brook,  and  wing-tipped  it.  Oliver  proposed  to  capture  it 
alive  and  we  surrounded  the  bird,  which  had  no  idea  of 
allowing  us  to  catch  it.  Standing  with  head  drawn  for 
a  stroke  and  with  defiance  in  its  eye,  now  ablaze  with 
fight,  and  facing  the  one  who  came  nearest,  it  was  a  most 
heroic  figure,  worthy  of  study  by  an  artist.  The  spaniel 
essayed  a  hand  in  the  fight,  and  then  tried  four  spry  legs 
on  the  homestretch  after  the  heron  stuck  his  spear-like 
bill  in  the  dog's  back. 

"You  make  a  dive  for  him,"  said  Oliver  to  us,  "and 
while  he  is  facing  you,  I'll  get  him  by  the  legs  and  neck." 
He  tried  it,  and  the  bird  wheeled  like  a  flash  and  struck 
the  boy  a  blow  on  the  back  of  the  hand  that  rendered  it 


98  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

useless  for  months.  Martin  then  tried  to  stun  him  by  a 
blow  on  the  head  with  a  stick,  but  the  heron  met  him 
with  a  jump  and  a  stroke  at  his  face  that  luckily  missed, 
or  he  might  have  been  killed  or  lost  an  eye.  We  learned 
something  of  the  fighting  qualities  of  a  blue  heron  that 
was  new  to  us  all.  I  had  not  been  as  rash  as  the  others, 
for  Port  Tyler  had  told  me  how  one  had  made  a  dent  in 
the  stock  of  his  gun ;  and  after  seeing  what  Oliver  and  the 
dog  got  I  had  great  respect  for  a  wounded  heron,  which, 
by  the  way,  the  boys  called  a  "crane"  as  they  took  him  to 
the  house  dead. 

We  made  several  trips  to  the  river  and  each  time  had 
fine  sport.  Martin  once  had  a  big  turtle  on  his  hook, 
which  fortunately  was  strong,  and  the  turtle  was  landed. 
But  it  was  a  singular  beast.  In  the  last  story  it  is  related 
how  the  collecting  of  turtles  was  a  fad  of  early  boyhood, 
and  I  thought  I  knew  them  all,  yet  here  was  one  with  a 
soft,  flat  shell  which  felt  like  wet  sole  leather,  a  snout  like 
a  pig's,  and  a  temper  as  savage  as  that  of  a  snapping  tur- 
tle. Verily  Michigan  had  singular  fishes  and  turtles,  but 
no  unfamiliar  bird  had  been  seen  so  far;  but  that  was  to 
come,  and  in  a  way  to  be  remembered. 

"Ever  shoot  a  wild  turkey?"  asked  Jim. 

"No,  never  saw  one;  we  don't  have  'em  about  Al- 
bany." 

"I'll  get  you  a  shot  at  one  if  you'll  come  over  to  my 
house,"  said  he,  "and  you  won't  have  to  go  far  for  it.  I 
know  where  it  feeds  every  day." 

If  I  had  known  the  whole  story,  or  how  it  was  going  to 
turn  out,  perhaps  the  turkey  might  have  lived  longer ;  but 
Jim  had  an  idea  of  getting  some  fun  out  of  either  me,  the 
turkey  or  some  other  thing.  It  happened  that  a  neighbor 
of  his  had  a  flock  of  white  turkeys  which  ranged  the 
woods,  and  a  stray  young  wild  turkey  fed  with  the  tame 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS.  99 

birds,  meeting  them  in  the  morning  and  leaving  them  in 
the  evening,  when  they  went  home.  A  boy  about  Jim's 
age,  whose  people  owned  the  flock  of  white  turkeys,  knew 
of  this  wild  one,  and  had  marked  it  for  his  meat  later 
on.  Jim  went  with  me  and  posted  me  behind  a  fallen 
log,  and  I  killed  the  turkey  and  started  for  the  road  to 
find  Jim,  when  a  big  boy  appeared  and  claimed  the  bird. 
Now  the  killing  of  that  turkey  had  not  a  bit  of  sportsman- 
ship in  it  and  was  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  but  it  was  a  wild 
turkey  and  mine.  I  refused  to  give  up  my  game. 

"This  is  not  one  of  your  turkeys;  yours  are  white." 

"I  say  it's  mine,  and  I'm  going  to  have  it.  That 
sneakin'  Jim  Brockway  sot  you  up  to  kill  my  turkey;  he 
dassn't  kill  it  himself,  but  I'll  have  it." 

"You  won't  get  it.  Jim  Brockway  is  down  in  the  road 
yonder,  an'  if  you  call  him  a  sneak  he'll  lick  you." 

"Jim  Brockway  can't  lick  one  side  o'  me,  nur  you  an' 
him  together.  Gi'  me  that  turkey,"  and  he  pushed  me. 
I  set  the  gun  back  against  a  log  and  tossed  the  turkey 
behind  it.  He  was  bigger  and  stronger  than  I,  but  les- 
sons from  Shel.  Hitchcock,  Albany's  teacher  of  sparring, 
gave  me  confidence,  if  he  could  be  kept  from  a  "catch-as- 
catch-can"  hold.  He  struck  an  awkward  swinging  blow 
and  got  a  stinger  on  the  ear.  He  was  astonished,  but 
made  a  rush,  which  was  avoided,  and  took  one  on  the 
nose,  which,  as  Professor  Sheldon  Hitchcock  would  have 
said,  "brought  the  claret."  So  far  I  was  unharmed  ex- 
cept for  my  right  hand,  which  has  never  been  equal  to  the 
biceps  which  drove  it,  and  I  had  only  learned  to  use  the 
left  as  a  guard.  He  gathered  himself  and  struck  straight 
this  time,  but  I  dodged  and  upper-cut  him  on  the  jaw,  and, 
in  the  language  of  the  Professor,  "he  grassed."  By  this 
time  Jim  appeared.  He  had  seen  it  all,  but  affected  sur- 
prise. 


100  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"Hello!"  said  he,  "what's  this  all  about?" 

The  fellow  picked  himself  up  and  said:  "You  know 
what  it's  all  about,  Jim  Brockway,  and  I'll  get  square  on 
you  for  it  some  day,  you  mind." 

"Why  don't  you  get  square  with  this  boy?"  said  Jim, 
in  a  tantalizing  manner.  "You  seem  to  have  had  some 
trouble  with  him.  I  don't  know  what  it's  about." 

"I'll  tell  you,  Jim,"  said  I;  "I  killed  a  turkey  and  he 
claims  it;  there  it  is,  a  wild  one,  and  everybody  knows 
that  all  the  tame  turkeys  about  here  are  white,  so't  they 
can  tell  'em  from  wild  ones.  Come  on,  Jim;  he  don't 
want  that  turkey  now,  'cause  he  said  he  was  goin'  to  take 
it,  but  he  didn't." 

On  returning  to  the  house  of  Uncle  Erastus  with  the 
turkey,  which  was  doubly  mine  now,  first  by  right  of  hav- 
ing reduced  it  to  possession  and  again  by  the  gauge  of 
battle,  mother  at  once  saw  the  condition  of  my  hand,  now 
painfully  swollen,  and,  mother-like,  wanted  to  know  what 
had  happened.  I  answered:  "Mother,  if  I  should  try  to 
tell  you  just  how  I  injured  my  hand  in  shooting  a  wild 
turkey  the  story  might  get  twisted,  and  I  was  excited  so 
much  that  I  might  be  mistaken.  Jim  will  be  over  to- 
night. He  was  there  and  knows  all  about  it;  let  him  tell 
it."  This  must  have  made  her  curiosity  almost  boil  over, 
for  there  was  a  mystery,  but  she  was  one  of  those  stoical 
people  whose  faces  never  give  an  indication  of  either  curi- 
osity, pleasure  or  pain,  so  she  said:  "Very  well,"  and 
waited.  After  hearing  Jim's  version  of  the  turkey  hunt 
she  never  referred  to  it  afterward.  She  may  have  de- 
tailed the  whole  affair  to  father,  but  when  I  said,  one  day 
after  getting  home :  "Father,  I  killed  a  wild  turkey  out  in 
Michigan,"  he  only  asked:  "How  much  did  it  weigh?" 

My  cousin,  Mrs.  Gilleland,  of  Adrian,  Mich.,  wrote 
me  a  year  ago:  "William  H.  is  now  living  at  Somerset 


THE  BROCKWAY  BOYS. 


101 


Center;  Jim  died  in  '67.  Of  my  brothers,  Clark  died 
when  twenty-four  years  old;  Oliver  died  in  Anderson- 
ville  prison;  Mathew  lost  a  leg  at  Vicksburg;  Alonzo  was 
in  the  army,  but  came  out  comparatively  well;  Martin  B. 
was  in  Andersonville  twenty-one  months,  and  is  now  liv- 
ing at  Petersburg,  Mich." 

I  do  not  know  what  became  of  the  fellow  who  claimed 
the  turkey.  I  knew  his  name  at  the  time,  but  I  remember 
that  he  didn't  get  the  bird. 


CAPTAIN   IRA  WOOD. 


STRIPED  BASS  IN  FRESH  WATER — EARLY  GREENBUSH. 

I  KNEW  him  better  in  after  years,  for  he  was  only  a 
child  when  he  left  Greenbush,  and  while  his  older 
brother,  Reuben, oversaw  the  capture  of  my  first  fish, 
as  before  recorded,  it  was  some  years  later  before  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  fishing  with  Ira.  Along  in  the  early  '5o's, 
perhaps  in  1852  or  '53,  he  came  from  his  home  in  Syra- 
cuse to  Albany  and  called  on  me.  He  was  then  a  young 
man  of  medium  height,  closely  knit,  muscular,  and  the 
owner  of  a  deep  chest  voice,  which  was  pleasant  and  melo- 
dious. He  had  been  an  actor,  and  had  an  engagement  in 
the  theatre  at  Albany  to  play  old  men's  or  other  parts,  and 
next  week  I  was  to  go  with  him  to  the  theatre  to  his 
dressing-room.  Like  many  other  young  fellows,  I  had 
thought  the  stage  a  most  desirable  place  to  strut  a  brief 
hour,  although  my  choice  did  not  lay  in  his  direction. 
Stars  did  not  travel  with  their  own  companies  then,  but 
depended  for  support  on  the  stock  companies,  and  as  they 
usually  had  two  or  three  different  plays  each  week  the 
members  of  the  company  had  to  study  hard,  and  there 
was  always  an  after-piece.  But  this  was  a  rare  treat  for 
me.  I  knew  Charley  Kane,  the  low  comedian,  who  also 
tortured  the  bass  drum  in  Johnny  Cooke's  brass  band, 
and  Shel.  Hitchcock,  my  sparring  tutor,  who  raised  the 
curtain ;  but  this  did  not  give  me  the  privilege  of  the  stage 
door.  Ira  did. 

The  week  opened  with  Mr.  Eddy  as  the  star.      Ira 

102 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD.  103 

played  Brabantio  to  his  Othello,  but  who  the  lago  was  is 
forgotten.  For  a  boy  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  Ira's  make- 
up as  the  "reverend  signior"  was  excellent,  and  he  filled 
the  dignified  part  well,  as  many  said.  Eddy  was  an  actor 
of  the  robust  school  of  Forrest  and  not  unlike  him  in  man- 
ner, and  would  bear  nothing  that  would  even  slightly 
mar  one  of  his  scenes.  Ira  also  played  with  Mr.  Eddy  in 
"Richard  III."  that  week,  and  afterward  with  Couldock  and 
other  stars  of  those  days.  I  do  not  remember  seeing  him 
in  comedy  except  once,  and  that  was  as  Sir  Anthony  Ab- 
solute, in  "The  Rivals,"  with  Mrs.  John  Drew  as  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  with  her  "derangement  of  epitaphs,"  but  for- 
get who  played  Bob  Acres  and  Sir  Lucius  OTrigger. 

One  day  Ira  wanted  to  go  fishing,  said  he  had  only 
some  four  hours  after  the  morning  rehearsal,  and  did  not 
want  to  put  in  all  his  time  in  going  and  coming  to  the 
fishing  grounds  and  back.  Evidently  the  Popskinny  was 
too  far  on  the  east  side  of  the  river,  and  the  Normanskill 
equally  so  on  the  Albany  side.  Fishing  off  the  dock  for 
such  strays  as  might  pass  had  ceased  to  be  attractive  as 
manhood  approached,  and  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  I 
said:  "Have  you  ever  fished  for  striped  bass  in  the  river 
here?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "the  only  fishing  I  have  ever  done  is  on 
the  inland  streams  and  on  Onondaga  Lake.  I  don't 
know  what  a  striped  bass  is  like.  If  they  are  near  here 
and  there  is  a  chance  to  get  one  or  two  let's  try  it.  How 
big  are  they?" 

"Down  in  salt  water  they  grow  big.  Up  here  they 
run  up  to  half  a  pound.  Meet  me  at  the  State  Street 
Bridge  at  any  hour  you  name  and  I  will  be  ready  with 
everything  that  we  need."  Naturally  all  these  conversa- 
tions in  the  long  ago  are  reproduced  in  substance  in  the 
words  that  memory  suggests  as  she  recalls  the  facts;  no 


104  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

stenographer  was  present.  When  Ira  came  he  found  a 
boat  hired  from  old  John  Cassidy,  who  had  a  fleet  to  let, 
and  it  was  provided  with  long  ropes  and  anchors  at  each 
end — one  of  those  wide,  flat-bottomed  scows,  built  like 
the  Dutchman's  wife,  who  said:  "She  vas  so  besser  built 
for  sittin'  down  as  for  runnin'  " — and  we  rowed  out  of  the 
basin  under  the  Hamilton  Street  Bridge,  for  there  was  a 
bridge  to  the  pier  in  those  days,  and  out  into  the  river 
opposite  the  foot  of  Dallius  Street,  which  bears  another 
name  now.  We  dropped  anchor  just  on  the  eastern  edge 
of  the  channel ;  I  knew  the  ranges  well  in  those  days,  be- 
fore bridges  over  the  river  were  built,  and  their  piers  had 
changed  the  currents  and  filled  in  the  creek  behind  the 
island  opposite  the  city,  where  we  boys  fished  and  swam. 

After  dropping  one  anchor,  we  brought  the  boat 
across  the  current  and  dropped  the  other.  There  is  a  tide 
at  Albany  except  when  the  great  freshets  come  down.  The 
water  in  those  days  at  ordinary  stages  varied  from  one  to 
two  feet  at  high  and  low  tides,  but  even  on  flood  tides 
there  was  always  a  current  down  stream,  weak  or  strong, 
as  the  tide  might  be  flood  or  ebb.  Therefore  we  could 
fish  from  the  lower  side  of  the  boat,  no  matter  how  the  tide 
was.  I  opened  a  two-quart  tin  pail.  "What's  that  stuff?" 
asked  Ira. 

"That's  sturgeon  spawn,  for  bait."  He  made  no  re- 
ply, but  watched  the  production  of  some  linen  thread,  and 
a  lot  of  white  mosquito  netting,  which  was  cut  into  four- 
inch  squares.  Then  I  rigged  him  a  hand  line  with  sinker, 
about  two  feet  above  which  was  a  hook  on  a  one-foot 
snell.  Above  the  hook  was  tied  one  foot  of  linen  thread, 
and,  putting  a  quantity  of  sturgeon  eggs  in  a  square  of 
netting,  it  was  fastened  about  the  hook  by  the  thread  and 
cast  far  out  down  stream.  I  had  learned  this  mode  of 
fishing  from  my  brother  Harleigh,  who,  with  Uncle  John 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD.  105 

Wilson,  the  ship  carpenter,  and  John  Ruyter,  the  tanner, 
were  the  only  ones  who  practised  it  about  Albany.  It 
was  an  art.  The  fly-fisher  may  curl  his  lip  if  he  pleases, 
but  I  am  a  fly-fisher  to-day,  and  will  say  that  to  take  small 
striped  bass  by  this  mode  is  more  difficult  than  to  take  a 
trout  on  an  artificial  fly,  after  the  novice  has  learned  the 
trick  of  casting. 

In  order  to  explain  this  mode  of  fishing  I  will  tell  it  as 
I  probably  did  to  Ira,  premising  that  the  mode  is  obsolete 
because  the  sturgeon  in  the  Hudson  are  nearly  obsolete; 
or,  if  not,  their  eggs,  instead  of  being  thrown  away,  as  in 
the  "good  old  days,"  are  now  made  into  caviare,  which 
men  otherwise  truthful  have  said  was  a  delicacy,  and  the 
Albany  angler  no  longer  fishes  in  this  way.  Perhaps  the 
young  striped  bass,  which  only  ascended  the  river  to  feed 
on  the  spawn  of  the  shad  and  the  sturgeon,  may  also  be 
obsolete  in  these  waters. 

"Now,  Ira,"  said  I,  in  obedience  to  instructions  under 
Harleigh,  "hold  your  line  taut.  When  you  feel  the  light- 
est touch  give  a  twitch  as  though  you  didn't  want  a  fish 
to  have  a  taste  of  your  bait.  A  bass  will  quickly  follow 
the  hook  and  you  will  feel  it  again.  Keep  this  up,  hand 
under  hand,  until  you  either  feel  them  wiggle  on  the  hook 
or  they  abandon  it.  In  either  case  haul  in,  for  the  bait  is 
gone  or  the  fish  is  hooked.  Don't  allow  a  bit  of  nibbling 
or  the  bait  is  lost.  Snatch  it  from  them  as  if  you  did  not 
want  them  to  have  it,  until  in  despair  they  make  a  rush 
and  take  hook  and  all.  Allow  no  sampling  and  sifting  of 
the  eggs  through  the  netting." 

After  a  while  he  got  the  hang  of  it,  losing  much  bait  in 
the  meantime,  and  we  took  quite  a  number  of  small 
striped  bass  in  the  only  mode  of  taking  this  fish  near  Al- 
bany, where  they  were  rarely  found  outside  the  channel 
of  the  river,  that  I  knew.  Fish  of  half  a  pound  were  con- 


106  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

sidered  big  ones,  but  Captain  John  Hitchcock,  a  retired 
river  man,  who  fished  from  the  steamboat  landing  almost 
daily,  once  caught  one  of  two  pounds  weight.  While  we 
were  fishing  we  saw  young  shad,  perhaps  two  or  three 
inches  long,  rising  near  the  boat,  apparently  after  such 
loose  sturgeon  eggs  as  might  escape  through  the  netting 
or  were  dropped  from  the  boat.  With  destructive  man 
in  addition  to  all  these  eaters  of  sturgeon  eggs  it  is  no 
wonder  that  "Albany  beef"  is  no  longer  found  in  the  mar- 
kets of  that  city.  The  great  fish  held  its  own  for  un- 
counted centuries  against  all  these  enemies,  the  greatest 
of  which  was  the  eel,  but  man  upset  the  balance  that 
nature  had  kept  and  the  sturgeon  has  nearly  followed  the 
buffalo,  the  wild  pigeon  and  other  beasts  and  birds  which 
man  has  pursued  for  market,  and  has  not  been  saved  from 
extinction  by  artificial  propagation,  as  he  has  saved  the 
shad  and  some  other  fishes.  We  did  not  philosophize  on 
these  things  then.  We  were  boys  and  life  was  before  us. 
The  future  of  the  sturgeon  troubled  us  as  little  as  the 
precession  of  the  equinoxes  or  the  differential  calculus. 
Boylike,  our  mental  vision  was  bounded  by  the  year,  and 
a  year  was  a  long  time  then.  It  was  so  long  from  one 
Christmas  to  another.  A  man  of  thirty  had  lived  a  great 
while,  we  thought,  and  the  disrespectful  boys  of  Green- 
bush  prefixed  "old"  to  the  name  of  every  man  over  fifty. 
This  reminiscence  is  brought  up  by  Ira's  questions. 

"Does  old  Hogeboom  let  the  boys  go  in  swimmin'  off 
the  dock  now?" 

The  man  referred  to  was  a  justice  of  the  peace,  an  office 
which  he  held  for  years,  but  from  my  earliest  recollection 
I  never  heard  him  called  anything  but  "old"  Hogeboom. 
Once  my  mother  expressed  surprise  that  I  had  returned 
from  a  swimming  trip  in  the  island  creek  so  soon. 
"Yes'm,"  said  I,  "we  on'y  just  got  nicely  in  when  ole 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD.  107 

Morris  came  down  and  drove  us  out."  She  said:  "Don't 
let  me  ever  hear  you  call  Mr.  Morris  'old  Morris;'  you 
should  have  said:  'Mr.  John  Morris  drove  us  out.' " 
Therefore  I  said  to  Ira: 

"No,  Squire  Hogeboom,"  with  emphasis  on  the 
Squire,  "doesn't  allow  us  to  go  in  off  the  village  dock,  but 
there's  good  swimmin'  off  the  rafts  over  there  by  the 
island." 

He  thought  a  moment  and  said:  "There's  one  thing 
sure,  I've  got  to  quit  the  theatre  or  begin  a  course  of 
study  that  I  never  thought  of.  I  must  learn  dancing, 
fencing,  music  and  a  whole  mess  of  things  if  I  continue 
in  it.  I  thought  that  a  little  knowledge  of  elocution  was 
all  that  was  needed,  and  I  got  a  little  of  that  and  went 
ahead.  It  is  all  up-hill  work,  and  I  think  it  is  best  to 
quit.  Reub  says  that  old  Genet  gives  fencing  lessons  yet, 
if  he's  living;  is  he  alive?" 

With  mother's  lesson  in  mind  I  answered :  "Yes,  Gen- 
eral Genet  is  alive,"  again  with  emphasis  on  the  title  for 
Ira's  benefit,  "and  he  is  the  same  skillful  swordsman  that 
he  always  was,  and  as  he  is  still  going  around  selling 
building  lots  in  Greenbush,  with  no  buyers,  the  chances 
are  that  he  will  be  glad  to  give  you  lessons."  If  Ira  was 
beside  me  now  he  would  be  reminded  of  his  irreverence 
and  told,  what  he  may  have  learned  in  after  years,  that 
his  fencing  master  was  a  son  of  the  illustrious  "Citizen" 
Genet  who  figured  in  our  Revolutionary  times.  In  after 
years  Ira  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  good  swordsman, 
and  while  he  was  learning  I  picked  up  a  point  or  two 
which  was  of  service  in  garrison  when  the  neck  of  a  cham- 
pagne bottle  was  to  be  severed  at  a  clean  stroke,  "but  I 
anticipate"  you  may  be  told  of  this  when  ex-President 
Arthur  is  under  the  searchlight. 

After  all  his  lessons  in  fencing,  and  his  studies  in  other 


108  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

directions,  Ira  shook  the  dust  of  the  stage  from  his  feet, 
left  Thespis,  Melpomene  and  other  more  or  less  reputable 
goddesses  behind  him  and  sought  other  fields.  We  did 
not  meet  again  for  many  years.  Boys  do  not  care  for 
each  other  as  men  do,  if  they  take  the  trouble  to  care  for 
any  one  except  their  royal  selves,  and  we  went  our  ways, 
but  somehow  we  were  thrown  together  again ;  perhaps  by 
some  occult  fatalism  of  which  we  then,  and  I  now,  know 
nothing,  for  on  a  review  of  life  to-day  no  man  is  recalled 
whose  early  ideas  so  fully  accorded  with  my  own.  He 
never  thought  of  accumulating  wealth.  A  powerful 
physique  enabled  him  to  disregard  all  thoughts  of  health 
and  a  romantic  disposition  led  him  to  seek  adventure. 
Without  consultation  we  both  went  away  in  the  same 
year,  he  to  the  army  and  I  to  try  a  different  but  equally 
adventurous  life. 

Ira  Wood  enlisted  February  18,  1854,  in  the  Engineer 
Corps,  U.  S.  A.,  at  Boston,  Mass.,  for  five  years.  He  was 
under  instruction  at  West  Point  for  a  while  and  was  then 
employed  on  Fort  Sumter,  at  Charleston ;  Fort  Taylor,  at 
Key  West,  and  was  discharged  Feb.  18, 1859,  at  Fort  Cas- 
cade, Washington  Territory,  by  reason  of  expiration  of 
his  term  of  service  as  an  artificer  of  Company  A,  First 
Lieutenant  James  C.  Duane  commanding.  He  had  made 
application  for  examination  for  promotion  to  a  lieuten- 
antcy,  but  no  examination  was  held  between  the  time  of 
application  and  his  discharge. 

At  the  call  for  volunteers  after  Fort  Sumter  was  fired 
upon,  and  the  regiments  of  State  militia  were  found  in- 
sufficient, Ira  Wood  raised  the  first  company  for  the  first 
regiment  of  volunteers  that  was  organized  in  the  State 
of  New  York ;  but  by  some  delay  at  Albany  other  organi- 
zations were  numbered  ahead  of  it,  and  the  regiment  left 
the  State  as  the  Twelfth  New  York  Volunteer  Infantry, 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD.  109 

with  Ira  as  first  lieutenant  of  Company  A.  He  was 
mustered  into  the  United  States  service  on  May  13,  1861. 
During  that  year  he  participated  in  the  battles  at  Black- 
burn's Ford,  Bull  Run  and  Upton's  Hill,  all  in  Virginia. 
He  was  promoted  to  captain,  and  mustered  as  such,  to 
date  October  29,  1861.  He  was  engaged  in  the  following 
battles  while  a  captain:  Near  Big  Bethel,  siege  of  York- 
town,  Hanover  Court  House,  Seven  Days'  battle,  Games' 
Mills,  Malvern  Hill,  Malvern  Cliff,  second  Bull  Run,  An- 
tietam  and  near  Shepardstown.  He  was  honorably  dis- 
charged on  tender  of  his  resignation  by  special  order, 
War  Department,  October  14,  1862.  He  resigned  to  be- 
come a  field  officer  in  a  new  regiment,  but  owing  to  the 
clamor  of  politicians  for  places  for  their  favorites  he  did 
not  get  the  appointment.  While  with  the  Twelfth  a 
friend  writes  me :  "The  regiment  was  for  a  good  part  of 
the  time  commanded  by  Captain  Wood,  the  senior  cap- 
tain, and  he  was  the  only  company  commander  who  was 
present  at  every  engagement  up  to  the  time  he  resigned. 
At  Antietam  he  made  a  record  with  his  color  guard,  when 
ordered  to  retreat,  by  backing  off  the  field  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, declaring  that  he  preferred  to  take  the  bullets  in 
front." 

On  leaving  the  army  he  was  for  a  few  years  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  American  Express  Company,  and  while  living 
in  Buffalo  became  a  captain  in  the  Seventy-fourth  New 
York  State  National  Guard.  He  then  went  back  to  Syra- 
cuse and  for  four  and  a  half  years  was  chief  of  the  fire 
department  of  that  city,  resigning  the  position  in  October, 
1 88 1,  to  travel  for  an  Eastern  manufactory  of  fire  hose. 
Upon  his  resignation  as  chief  the  Board  of  Fire  Com- 
missioners tried  to  induce  him  to  remain,  and  passed  reso- 
lutions of  regret.  Steamer  No.  I  and  the  Hook  and  Lad- 
der Company  presented  him  with  an  elegant  desk  clock, 


110  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

with  an  inscription  commending  his  mode  of  handling 
fires.  The  leading  citizens  and  merchants  of  Syracuse 
presented  him  with  a  costly  watch  in  recognition  of  his 
efficient  service. 

In  1867  Ira  married  Miss  Brinckerhoff,  of  Albany, 
who,  with  one  son,  Frederic  K.  Wood,  survives  him.  He 
was  born  in  Greenbush,  N.  Y.,  May  18,  1834,  and  died 
at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  April  6,  1886,  after  an  illness  of  only 
three  days,  caused  by  some  bladder  trouble.  He  was  an 
enthusiastic  Mason  and  Grand  Army  man.  He  attained 
the  thirty-second  degree  of  the  Scottish  Rite  in  Masonry, 
and  was  Adjutant  of  George  S.  Dawson  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  of 
Albany.  He  was  buried  with  services  of  the  G.  A.  R. 
and  with  those  of  the  Knights  Templar,  these  organiza- 
tions attending  in  uniform.  It  was  also  my  privilege  to 
witness  the  last  sad  rites  over  the  friend  of  a  lifetime,  one 
of  the  bravest,  truest  and  gentlest  men  that  ever  trod  the 
earth. 

Ira  went  to  Albany  in  1883  as  head  of  a  branch  of  the 
house  of  Pierce,  Butler  &  Pierce,  of  Syracuse.  Long  be- 
fore this  his  fame  as  a  fly-caster  and  winner  of  prizes  at 
tournaments  of  the  State  Association  for  Protection  of 
Game,  held  at  Rochester,  Buffalo  and  Syracuse,  had 
drifted  eastward,  but  not  until  the  tournament  of  the 
State  Association  was  held  at  Coney  Island  in  June,  1881, 
when  I  superintended  the  fly-casting  contests,  did  we 
clasp  hands  since  we  parted  in  Albany,  some  twenty-seven 
years  before. 

"Why,  you  old  duffer!  You  have  been  in  a  flour  mill! 
Your  hair  is  all  white!  Take  off  your  hat  and  I'll  dust 
you  off!" 

"Yes,  that'll  all  come  off,  but  your  head  is  mildewed, 
and  you'll  have  to  bleach  it  in  the  sun  to  kill  the  mould." 

His  record  in  that  tournament  was  101  feet  with  a 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD. 


Ill 


two-handed  salmon  rod,  a  full  account  of  which  appears 
in  the  sketch  of  his  brother  Reuben.  In  the  class  for 
single-handed  rods  Reub  and  Ira  entered.  Ira  had  not 
got  out  all  the  line  he  could  handle,  and  Frank  Endicott 
said  that,  as  his  brother  Reuben  cast  before  Ira  and  took 
first  with  75  feet,  he  withdrew  for  fear  of  beating  his 
brother.  This  was  probably  the  fact,  because  I  had  at- 
tended a  State  tournament  after  this  where  the  contest- 
ants were  Seth  Green,  Reuben  and  Ira  Wood.  Seth  had 
a  wonderful  reputation  as  a  fly-caster,  and  they  used 
to  report  his  casts  without  strict  measurements,  because 
his  only  contestants  up  the  State  were  Reub  and  Ira,  and 
Reub  would  not  beat  Seth  under  any  circumstances;  nor 
would  he  allow  Ira  to  beat  Seth.  Once  I  stood  on  the 
casting  platform.  Seth  had  cast,  and  Reub  had  re- 
strained himself  and  was  restraining  Ira. 

"Don't  you  do  it,  Ira,"  said  Reub;  "hold  it,  don't  beat 
the  old  man,  it  will  break  his  heart.  There  now!  That's 
far  enough." 

"Go  in,  Ira,"  said  I;  "go  in  and  win,"  for  I  never  loved 
Seth  as  Reub  did;  "don't  let  Reub  hold  you  back;  this  is 
a  fair  open  contest,  and  you  should  win  if  you  can." 

He  didn't  win;  could,  but  wouldn't.  He  listened  to 
his  brother,  and  if  the  little  fly-casting  tournaments  of  the 
State  Association  had  been  kept  up  the  same  old  farce  of 
"don't  you  do  it,  Ira,"  would  have  continued.  After  the 
Coney  Island  tournament  was  over  "The  National  Rod 
and  Reel  Association"  was  organized,  with  Francis  Endi- 
cott as  president,  and  yearly  tournaments  were  held  on 
Harlem  Mere,  Central  Park,  New  York  City.  Here  both 
Reuben  and  Ira  were  freed  from  Reuben's  worship  of 
Green,  who  never  cared  to  meet  Hawes,  Leonard, 
Prichard  and  the  other  great  fly-casters,  and  the  scores 
of  the  Wood  brothers  are  familiar  to  readers  of  Forest  and 


112  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Stream.  After  these  meetings,  when  Ira  and  I  got  to  talk- 
ing over  old  times  and  swapping  army  experiences,  some- 
thing always  happened  to  interrupt,  and  the  loss  cannot 
be  repaired. 

At  the  tournaments  in  Central  Park  it  was  a  common 
remark  how  Ira  was  always  on  the  casting  platform  un- 
tangling the  lines,  tying  on  flies  and  helping  the  men  who 
were  in  the  contest  against  him;  a  course  so  opposite  to 
that  of  the  "mug  hunters,"  which  the  lax  rules  of  the  As- 
sociation encouraged  to  enter  the  lists,  that  it  could  not 
have  passed  unnoticed.  Unconsciously  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  was  exposing  himself  and  his  great,  kind  heart 
to  the  public,  and,  worst  of  all,  to  one  who  in  later  years 
chose  to  write  him  up  and  show  him  by  lime-light  on  the 
great  curtain  of  Forest  and  Stream. 

In  1885,  after  I  had  begun  the  stocking  of  the  Hudson 
River  with  salmon,  Ira  organized  the  Eastern  New  York 
Fish  and  Game  Protective  Association,  which  still  exists. 
Under  date  of  November  18,  1885,  he  wrote  me:  "I  have 
set  on  foot  a  plan  for  forming  a  club  or  society,  to  be  com- 
posed of  the  best  men  in  this  city  (Albany),  to  care  for  the 
salmon  which  you  have  planted  in  the  Hudson,  and  also 
to  protect  all  other  fish  and  game  in  this  region." 

In  this  imperfect  sketch  I  have  been  greatly  assisted 
by  Mr.  William  Allen  Butler,  of  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  in  gath- 
ering facts  concerning  Ira's  life  in  that  city.  He  tells  me 
that  "Captain  Wood  came  of  good  old  New  England 
stock,  being  a  descendant  of  Dr.  Samuel  Wood,  who 
came  from  England  in  1684,  and  was  one  of  the  first  set- 
tlers of  Danbury,  Conn.,  in  1696.  His  mother  was  a 
Breed,  and  her  father,  with  three  brothers  and  their  father, 
fought  in  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  on  their  own  farm; 
their  ancestor,  Allan  Breed,  having  emigrated  from  Eng- 
land in  1630  with  Governor  Winthrop  and  the  Puritans." 


IRA  WOOD. 


CAPTAIN  IRA  WOOD.  113 

As  a  boy,  Mr.  Butler  was  one  of  Ira's  pupils  in  fly-casting, 
and  speaks  with  great  enthusiasm  of  his  teacher  when  he 
relates  their  trips  to  the  Adirondacks. 

About  a  week  before  his  death  Captain  Wood  opened 
a  store  in  Albany,  at  1 5  Green  Street,  for  the  sale  of  fish- 
ing tackle  and  general  sporting  goods,  with  every  pros- 
pect of  success.  Cut  down  by  the  reaper  before  he  was 
fully  ripe,  those  whose  good  fortune  it  was  to  know  him 
intimately  can  say  with  Marc  Antony : 

"His  life  was  gentle;  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man!'  " 


GENERAL   MARTIN    MILLER. 

SKATING,  ICE-BOATING  AND  CAMP  COOKERY. 

WITH  clothing  torn  and  bloody,  his  face  bruised 
and  cut,  one  eye  blackened  and  swollen  shut, 
Mat  Miller  came  down  the  main  street  in 
Greenbush  one  day.  Beside  him  walked  a  giant  negro, 
like  Eugene  Aram,  "with  gyves  upon  his  wrists,"  and  in 
a  condition  like  Mat's  as  to  face  and  clothing.  This  sight 
so  impressed  me  that  it  always  came  up  whenever  I  heard 
of  or  saw  Mr.  Miller.  We  little  boys  had  never  seen  such 
a  sight,  and  when  we  learned  that  the  colored  desperado 
had  been  a  terror  to  the  country  for  miles  around,  and  was 
a  burglar,  and  that  Constable  Miller,  having  learned  that 
he  was  sleeping  in  the  old  spook-house  barn,  had  attacked 
him  alone  and  captured  him  after  a  long  and  fierce  fight, 
he  was  our  hero.  We  learned  in  later  years  that  this 
genial,  fine-looking  athlete  was  the  champion  wrestler  of 
Rensselaer  County,  and  at  "collar  and  elbow"  or  "square 
hold"  could  lay  the  local  wrestlers  on  their  backs.  But 
this  capture  of  the  powerful  burglar  overtopped  his  other 
feats. 

Some  time  after  this  event  Herr  Driesbach,  the  great 
animal  trainer,  wintered  his  menagerie  in  Greenbush,  in 
the  stables  of  Bill  Gaines,  the  local  racing  man,  on  Broad- 
way, just  below  Columbia  Street,  back  of  Fly's  brick 
store,  which  still  stands  there.  In  those  days  the  circus 
and  the  menagerie  were  two  distinct  things.  The  circus 
had  no  animals,  while  the  menagerie  had  a  ring  in  which 
dogs  and  monkeys  rode  on  ponies  and  appealed  to  that 
portion  of  the  public  which  objected  to  men  and  women 

114 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER.  115 

in  tights.  In  early  days,  when  my  father's  barges  brought 
emigrants  up  the  river  to  Albany,  Jake  Driesbach  was  an 
emigrant  runner  for  a  line  of  canal  boats  which  took  them 
to  Buffalo.  He  then  went  to  Germany,  and  returned  as 
"Herr  Driesbach,  the  world-renowned  lion  tamer."  Boys 
were  not  wanted  in  the  stables,  but  as  father's  business 
froze  up  when  the  river  did,  and  Driesbach  came  to  our 
house  in  the  long  evenings  to  play  chess  with  father,  I 
had  the  run  of  the  show,  to  the  envy  of  the  other  boys, 
who  could  not  get  in  unless  I  chose  to  take  them.  To  be 
on  intimate  terms  with  so  great  a  man — for  a  lion  tamer 
is  the  biggest  kind  of  a  man  to  a  small  boy — was  indeed 
a  pleasure  unknown  to  men  who  were  never  boys.  By 
that  I  mean  those  old  fellows  who  were  born  "young 
men"  and  never  had  any  fun. 

The  privilege  of  seeing  these  animals  at  all  times  was 
something,  but  to  witness  the  rehearsals  that  were  neces- 
sary to  keep  both  men  and  animals  in  readiness  for  the 
opening  performance  in  the  spring  was  a  thing  that  a 
real  live,  full-blooded  boy  would  naturally  class  as  but 
little  below  paradise,  if  he  didn't  consider  it  a  dozen  miles 
above.  As  the  village  constable,  Mat  Miller  walked  in 
the  menagerie  when  he  pleased.  In  fact  any  reputable 
citizen  could;  the  line  was  drawn  at  boys,  who  might  get 
hurt  or  into  mischief.  There  was  no  steam-heating  ap- 
paratus in  those  days,  and  the  two  elephants,  the  giraffe 
(the  first  one  ever  in  America),  the  monkeys  and  other 
inhabitants  of  warm  countries  were  in  the  end  where  the 
great  stoves  were.  One  day  a  chained  elephant  became 
scared  at  something;  Driesbach  said  the  animal  saw  a 
mouse  and  feared  it  would  go  up  its  trunk.  The  cage 
containing  the  royal  Bengal  tiger  was  overturned,  and 
pandemonium,  or  the  Cooper  Union  after  an  Anarchist 
meeting,  was  a  Quaker  assembly  compared  to  it.  The 


116  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

elephants  trumpeted,  lions  roared,  hyenas  howled,  mon- 
keys screamed  and  what  the  cockatoo  said  is  lost.  "Mat" 
was  there,  and  so  was  Driesbach  and  the  writer.  The 
constable  jumped,  grabbed  the  cage  by  the  top  and  forced 
it  back  to  its  place  at  the  expense  of  a  coat  and  a  torn 
shoulder  from  the  tiger's  claws.  Driesbach  was  astounded 
at  the  quickness  and  strength  of  this  unassuming  man, 
and  offered  him  a  lucrative  position  to  travel  with  him, 
which  was  declined.  Me?  Oh,  yes!  After  it  was  all 
over  "Dandy"  Nesbitt,  the  jockey,  Tom  Scribner  and  I 
were  found  safe  under  the  wagon  where  the  trick  bear  had 
his  residence. 

Up  to  about  1845  there  was  lots  of  fun  every  year  at 
"general  training."  This  was  an  assembling  of  the  uni- 
formed and  the  ununiformed  militia  for  several  days  or  a 
week's  drill  in  camp,  as  required  by  law.  The  ununi- 
formed militia  consisted  of  every  man  between  certain 
ages,  not  specially  exempted,  who  could,  I  think,  escape 
by  paying  a  certain  sum.  It  was  a  grand  spree  for  some 
and  the  guard-house  was  always  well  filled  with  drunks. 
When  in  garrison  in  later  years  this  gang  was  known  as 
Company  Q, 

Martin  Miller  was  a  general  of  militia,  but  of  what 
rank  I  never  knew ;  in  fact,  rank  was  unknown  to  us  boys 
beyond  the  fact  that  there  were  officers  and  privates.  It 
was  my  fortune  to  see  two  "general  trainin's/'  one  on  the 
farm  of  John  Morris,  above  the  village,  and  the  other  at 
Clinton  Heights.  Then  I  think  the  law  was  changed  and 
they  were  abolished,  perhaps  before  1845,  f°r  I  was  tnen 
old  enough  to  remember  more  than  two  such  rackets.  It 
was  a  great  event.  Drums,  flags,  the  squads  of  farmers' 
boys  who  couldn't  keep  step  to  the  drum,  the  neat  uni- 
forms of  some  of  the  companies,  the  usual  crowd  of  bump- 
kins, yokels,  three-card-monte  men,  thimble-riggers, 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER. 


117 


sweat  boards,  chuck-luck  and  other  gamblers,  peanuts, 
gingerbread  and,  above  all,  General  Martin  Miller  re- 
splendent in  chapeau  bras,  epaulet,  sword  and  sash, 
mounted  on  a  white  horse,  trying  to  bring  order  out  of 
chaos.  If  all  these  things  did  not  make  soldiers  for  the 
State  out  of  the  rawest  kind  of  material  it  certainly  made 
a  very  large  day  for  the  small  boy. 

If  any  one  trait  was  more  prominent  than  another  in 
the  mental  make-up  of  General  Miller  it  was  his  love  of 
boys  and  his  desire  to  see  them  have  fun.  Having  no 
children  of  his  own  at  that  time,  he  was  fond  of  those  of 
his  neighbors.  Things  were  getting  along  in  shape  and 
the  gamblers  were  reaping  a  harvest,  when  the  General 
invited  a  crowd  of  boys  to  follow  him  if  they  wanted  to 
see  some  fun.  Every  sweat  board  and  chuck-luck  table 
had  piles  of  coin  of  all  sizes  and  values  piled  up  to  show 
their  ability  to  pay  bets,  and  as  the  General  came  along- 
side of  one  he  would  wheel  his  horse  suddenly,  clap  the 
spurs  to  him,  and  that  gambler's  coin  was  scattered  far 
and  wide,  a  harvest  for  those  who  could  reap.  Somehow 
the  gamblers  did  not  appear  to  like  this,  judging  from 
their  remarks. 

Years  after  this  the  General  became  a  grocer,  and  in 
that  very  democratic  community  subsided  into  plain, 
every-day  Mat  Miller,  so  called  by  every  man,  woman  and 
child  in  the  village. 

We  were  in  his  store  one  day  talking  of  going  down  to 
the  Popskinny  for  a  couple  of  days'  fishing  and  to  camp 
in  Rivenburg's  barn  in  the  hay. 

"What  do  you  boys  do  down  there  at  night?"  he  asked. 
"Perhaps  you  raid  Teller's  potato  patch  and  roast  his  po- 
tatoes with  his  fence  rails.  I  think  I'll  go  along  to  keep 
you  straight." 

"Come  along,"  said  Billy  Shaw,  "we'll  let  you  gather 


118  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

drift-wood,  and  then  you'll  know  whether  we  use  fence 
rails  or  not." 

"Yes,"  chipped  in  John  Atwood,  "and  you  can  hook 
the  potatoes,  too,  if  you  want  'em.  We  never  trouble  the 
farmers  and  they  don't  trouble  us.  We  take  our  grub 
along  and  just  cook  a  few  fish." 

Billy  Atwood,  a  boy  who  seldom  said  anything,  re- 
marked: "Mat  might  go  and  milk  some  of  Rivenburg's 
cows  if  he  wants  to  eat  his  fish  in  milk,"  a  reference  to  a 
man  who  was  said  to  have  tried  this  dish  on  recommenda- 
tion of  one  Harleigh  Mather,  whose  humor  lay  in  such 
things.  This  man  was  known  as  "Suckers  and  Milk"  un- 
til life  became  a  burden  to  him  and  he  moved  away.  This 
same  irreverent  joker  in  after  years  replied  to  a  clergy- 
man who  wished  to  know  how  to  cook  frogs:  "Oh,  we 
stew  them  just  as  we  do  bats."  I  do  not  approve  of  this 
sort  of  thing  except  when  I  do  it  myself. 

Rivenburg's  barn  was  only  used  to  store  hay  in  until 
it  could  be  pressed  into  bales  and  sent  off,  therefore  it  was 
empty  most  of  the  year,  but  there  was  always  enough 
loose  hay  left  to  sleep  in.  It  was  one  of  the  finest  barns 
you  ever  saw,  for  ventilation.  The  doors  were  off  the 
hinges  and  were  propped  up  by  poles.  We  did  not  dis- 
turb them,  but  walked  in  from  whichever  side  was  con- 
venient. The  double  doors  were,  if  I  remember,  a  trifle 
larger  than  the  other  holes. 

John  Atwood  had  brought  the  worms  for  bait  in  some 
old  mustard  boxes,  and  we  assured  Mat  that  they  were 
not  brought  in  the  coffee-pot  because  that  had  been  kept 
hidden  in  the  barn  as  part  of  our  permanent  outfit,  along 
with  the  frying-pan  and  tin  cups.  Hot  coffee,  fried 
sausages  and  other  things  saw  us  comfortably  fed  by  sun- 
down. Great  clouds  came  up  and  the  wind  shook  the 
barn  and  we  hurried  to  the  tightest  corner  as  the  storm 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER. 


119 


suddenly  broke  over  us.  The  thunder  made  the  barn 
shake  and  it  could  not  have  rained  harder.  Flash  after 
flash  came  so  fast,  and  the  thunder  followed  so  quickly 
that  one  could  hardly  note  the  interval.  Heaven's  artil- 
lery opened  right  over  us,  and  every  fellow  was  doing  his 
own  thinking  and  keeping  it  to  himself.  Billy  Shaw  was 
the  exception.  He  ventured  to  remark :  "Maybe  you  fel- 
lows like  this,  but  I  wish  I  was  home!"  That  broke  the 
spell,  and  he  was  nearly  smothered  in  the  hay  which  they 
piled  on  him.  During  this  smothering  of  Shaw  I  saw,  or 
believe  I  saw,  a  flash  of  lightning  shoot  up  from  the 
ground.  It  was  so  close  to  the  barn  that  it  seemed  as  if  a 
man  had  shot  a  gun  in  the  air.  Two  boards  were  off  that 
side  and  there  was  no  man  there.  If  such  a  thing  ever 
occurs,  I  saw  an  instance  of  it;  if  it  does  not  I  was  de- 
ceived. No  hole  in  the  ground  was  visible  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  half  a  century  has  not  dimmed  the  picture. 

Such  a  rain  never  lasts  long,  and  soon  the  stars  were 
shining,  and  we  rebuilt  the  little  fire,  and  with  dry  ma- 
terial from  the  barn  for  seats  were  enjoying  life,  when 
the  sound  of  oars  was  heard,  and  soon  the  lapping  of  the 
water  under  the  bottom  of  a  little  scow  told  that  a  boat 
was  near. 

"Halt!  Who  comes  there?"  was  the  challenge  of  the 
General. 

Bill  Atwood,  John's  younger  brother,  who  had  already 
shown  symptoms  of  nautical  bacteria  which  eventually 
dragged  him  to  a  sailor's  life,  hailed  the  coming  craft 
with :  "Aboard  the  scow !  Pull  on  yer  starb'd  oar  or  you'll 
foul  our  coffee-pot!" 

A  few  more  strokes  and  the  boat  was  beached  and  out 
stepped  the  old  trapper,  Port  Tyler.  "Where's  that  cof- 
fee-pot?" said  he.  "I'm  wet  an'  cold,  and  some  hot  coffee 
is  just  what  I  want.  No,  thanks,  nothing  to  eat;  I've  got 


120  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

lots.  Why,  Mat  Miller!  What  you  doin'  here  campin' 
out  with  these  boys?  I  see  ye  all  go  by  when  I  was  hid 
in  the  lilypads  around  the  bend  yonder  watchin'  for  wood 
ducks,  an'  I  knowed  the  hull  lot  on'y  Mat,  an'  I'd  a 
knowed  him  ef  I'd  a-suspected  he'd  come  a-campin'  with 
you  boys.  What're  ye  up  to,  Mat?  Burglars  or  thieves 
been  on  the  island,  or  are  ye  on'y  lookin'  up  the  boys 
that's  just  come  of  age  and  just  goin'  to  vote  for  the  first 
time  this  fall?" 

"Sit  down  here,"  said  the  General ;  "get  outside  of  this 
warm  coffee.  I'm  not  looking  for  you,  but  there's  a 
widow  up  there  at  John  Morris'  rope-walk  that  is,  and 
she'll  get  you,  too,  if  you  don't  look  out." 

This  was  a  clean  knock-out,  for  if  ever  there  was  a 
man  who  was  shy  of  a  woman  it  was  that  confirmed  old 
bachelor,  Port  Tyler. 

The  stars  twinkled.  Venus,  just  about  to  disrobe 
and  retire  for  the  night,  winked  at  Polaris,  the  night 
clerk,  and  hid  herself  behind  Bethlehem  woods.  A 
night  heron  said  "quawk"  in  a  derisive  tone,  and  even 
the  little  barn  owl  seemed  unduly  hilarious  as  it  alighted 
on  the  gable  of  the  barn  with  a  field-mouse.  Then  there 
was  a  vast  wave  of  silence  that  rose  like  the  battle  waves 
of  Ossian  and  overflowed  the  lands  on  either  side  of  the 
historic  Popskinny.  Miller's  shot  struck  home,  and  the 
bashful  trapper  took  it  in  silence.  Not  a  leaf  stirred. 
Billy  Shaw  finally  ventured  to  ask,  "What  kind  o'  game 
are  you  after,  Port?" 

"Oh,  just  lookin'  for  yellow-legs  and  shore  birds. 
I've  got  three  young  quawks*  in  the  boat,  and  nobody 

*This  is  the  way  we  called  this  night  heron,  Nycticorax.  The  com- 
mon name  is  sometimes  spelled  "squawk,"  while  some  naturalists  call  it 
"the  qua  bird."  If  you  take  my  spelling  and  add  "quock"  to  it,  and 
then  divide  the  sum  total  by  two,  you  will  get  very  near  to  the  bird's  own 
pronunciation  of  its  name ;  and  who  should  know  better  than  he? 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER. 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER. 


121 


about  here  eats  'em  but  me;  so  I  can't  sell  Jem,  an'  if 
you'll  eat  'em  I'll  cook  'em." 

By  unanimous  consent  it  was  voted  "a  go/'  or  words 
to  that  effect.  Billy  Shaw,  who  had  no  fear  of  thunder 
now  that  it  was  not  in  his  immediate  front,  said  that  we 
were  down  for  fun  and  might  as  well  have  it.  "If  you 
are  not  hungry  now,"  said  he,  "you  will  be  by  the  time 
old  Port  gets  these  song  birds  dressed  and  cooked." 

John  Atwood  and  I  took  Port's  boat  and  put  out  his 
set  lines  for  eels,  in  order  to  have  fish  for  breakfast. 
These  lines  were  of  quarter-inch  cord,  reaching  from 
bank  to  bank.  At  every  two  feet  was  a  one-foot  snood 
tied  with  a  "bow-timber  hitch,"  dropping  only  one  foot 
below.  This  enabled  the  fisher  to  snatch  a  snood  loose 
and  drop  it  in  the  boat,  eel  or  no  eel;  but  the  beauty  of 
Tyler's  rig  was  the  eyed  hooks  with  a  knot  above  and 
one  below,  which  prevented  an  eel  from  unlaying  the 
snood  and  breaking  it  strand  by  strand,  merely  turning 
the  hook  as  if  on  a  swivel.  There  is  no  patent  on  it. 

The  quawks  were  roasted  when  we  returned  after 
putting  out  the  eel  lines  in  several  places,  and  the  fact 
that  we  had  eaten  one  supper  did  not  prevent  us  from 
eating  of  the  strange  birds,  and  they  were  not  a  bit  fishy, 
as  one  would  suppose,  but  were  tender  and  good.  Port 
had  set  up  a  wind  break  and  heat  reflector  by  the  fire 
and  hung  the  birds  on  strings,  so  that  they  kept  twisting 
round.  When  we  came  to  crawl  into  the  hay  for  the 
night  Billy  Shaw  seemed  a  bit  nervous  and  inquired  if 
there  might  be  rats  about,  and  that  started  stories  of 
enormous  rats  that  lived  along  the  creek  and  in  the 
barns,  all  for  his  benefit.  The  little  owl  would  whinny 
not  unlike  a  horse,  and  Billy  was  evidently  uneasy  until 
Miller  ran  a  stick  in  a  wiggling  way  into  the  hay  and  said 
something  about  snakes.  Then  Billy  vowed  that  he  would 


122  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

go  home.  The  General  owned  up  and  persuaded  him  to 
lie  down,  and  the  next  we  knew  the  night  had  gone. 

We  had  eels  enough  for  breakfast  on  the  first  line, 
and  then  Port  took  up  the  others  and  left  us.  We 
fished  until  near  noon,  when  the  fish  took  a  rest,  and  we 
gathered  at  the  barn,  each  with  several  strings  of  perch, 
bullheads  and  rock  bass.  John  Atwood  had  a  strange 
fish,  one  that  none  of  the  party  had  ever  seen  before. 
We  learned  that  it  was  a  black  bass,  a  Western  fish  that 
had  come  into  the  Hudson  by  way  of  the  Erie  Canal,  so 
Harleigh  said,  and  he  was  the  village  authority  on  fish 
and  fishing.  Just  why  the  bass  have  not  become  more 
plenty  in  the  upper  river  is  a  problem.  Down  about 
Newburgh,  where  the  water  is  often  somewhat  brackish, 
they  seem  to  be  more  plentiful.  A  little  more  fishing  in 
the  afternoon,  and  we  went  home  after  sundown.  The 
General  declared  it  was  a  pleasant  trip,  but  I  never  knew 
him  to  fish  before  or  after  this  once. 

Back  of  Ruyter  &  Van  Valkenburg's  tannery  there 
was  a  great  heap  of  spent  tanbark  to  tumble  in,  and 
Jimmy  Brown  and  I  practised  somersaults  there;  the 
other  boys  merely  jumped.  This  interested  the  General, 
and  he  would  help  us  in  a  whirl  with  his  strong  arm, 
which  landed  us  on  our  feet.  This  was  a  special  help  in 
the  back  flop.  Poor  Jimmy  Brown!  We  used  to  play 
the  banjo  for  each  other's  jigs  on  the  sanded  floor  until 
he  was  burned  up  on  the  steamer  Reindeer  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1850.  General  Miller  also  taught  us  to  wrestle 
in  the  "collar-and-elbow"  and  "square  hold"  styles,  and 
always  impressed  his  correction  of  a  fault  upon  us  by 
taking  hold  himself  and  making  the  faulty  one  put  his 
foot  or  his  weight  in  the  wrong  position  and  then  quickly 
laid  him  on  his  back.  There  were  many  fair  wrestlers 
then  among  the  boys  of  Greenbush. 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER.  123 

One  winter,  when  the  ice  was  exceptionally  good,  he 
proposed  a  skating  party  to  Hudson,  some  twenty-eight 
miles  down  the  river.  We  had  an  ice  boat  that  some  of 
the  boys  built,  and  this  was  to  go  along  to  pick  up  strag- 
glers and  to  return  on.  Cub  Wilson  sailed  the  boat.  A 
Greenbush  boy  of  those  days  had  little  reverence  and  less 
respect  in  his  composition,  and  nicknames  were  com- 
mon. Wilson  was  then  about  twenty-five  years  old,  fat 
and  unwieldy,  and  had  been  called  Cub  from  boyhood 
and  didn't  mind  it.  He  may  have  had  a  given  name, 
and  no  doubt  his  mother  called  him  by  it.  The  party 
consisted  of  John  Atwood,  John  and  Hiram  Stranahan, 
Jerry  Van  Beuren,  James  Miles,  Isaac  Polhemus,  John 
Phillips,  General  Miller  and  myself,  the  youngest  in  the 
party.  We  started  in  the  morning  about  eight.  A  light 
south  wind  was  in  our  faces,  and  coats  and  overcoats 
were  soon  piled  on  the  ice  boat.  In  places  the  ice  was 
too  rough  to  skate,  and  once  we  took  off  the  skates  and 
walked  about  half  a  mile.  Phillips  and  the  Stranahans 
were  the  best  skaters,  and  took  the  lead  and  kept  it, 
reaching  Hudson  some  time  ahead  of  us.  Atwood,  Van 
Beuren  and  I  brought  up  the  rear.  We  did  the  stretch 
in  four  and  a  half  hours — some  claimed  less  time — pretty 
well  tired  and  with  numb  feet.  We  all  wore  high  boots. 
The  skates,  with  great  turned-over  prows  ending  in  brass 
acorns,  were  guttered  in  the  bottoms,  and  strapped  so 
tightly  over  the  foot  that  the  blood  could  not  circulate. 
We  did  not  think  skating  possible  under  any  other  con- 
ditions. When  the  strap  would  not  take  up  another 
hole  we  drove  wooden  wedges  between  the  strap  and  the 
boot  to  make  it  tighter.  A  few  years  ago  I  tried  on  the 
old  style  of  skate  and  could  get  around  a  little,  but  could 
do  nothing  with  those  of  the  present  model. 

At  Hudson  General  Miller  took  us  to  a  hotel  and  we 


124  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

had  a  good  dinner.  We  had  a  strong  wind  from  the 
west  on  the  homestretch  and  the  ice  boat  did  not  have  to 
tack  once,  and  we  were  not  long  on  the  way.  Skipper 
Wilson  remarked:  "You  boys  beat  me  when  I  had  to 
tack  against  a  head  wind,  but  you  couldn't  do  it  now." 
On  telling  the  story  the  General  said:  "The  boys  are  all 
good  skaters,  but  you  should  see  'em  eat !  They  cleaned 
up  everything  in  that  hotel,  and  if  they  ever  go  to  Hud- 
son again  that  landlord  will  close  his  house  when  he  sees 
'em  coming." 

"Hans  Breitman's  gife  a  barty — 

Where  ish  dat  barty  now? 
Where  ish  de  lofely  golden  cloud 

Dat  float  on  de  moundain's  prow? 
Where  ish  de  himmel  strahlende  stern— 

De  shtar  of  de  shpirit's  light? 
All  goned  afay  mit  de  lager  beer — 

Afay  in  de  ewigkeit!" 

This  philosophical  verse  of  Leland's  comes  up  when 
that  day  is  recalled,  for  all  except  the  writer  have  passed 
into  the  ewigkeit  of  the  Plattdeutsche,  or  evigkeit  of  the 
German.  Five  died  peacefully.  John  Atwood  was 
killed  by  a  boiler  explosion,  Van  Beuren  was  drowned 
in  California,  and  Phillips  was  killed  by  interlocking  his 
"turn-over"  skate  with  that  of  another  boy,  and  his  skull 
was  broken  on  the  ice.  Surely  I  may  ask:  Where  is 
that  party  now?  And  ewigkeit,  or  eternity,  as  you 
choose,  is  the  only  answer. 

I  learn  from  one  of  boyhood's  companions  who  has 
not  yet  crossed  the  Styx  that  General  Martin  Miller  was 
born  on  May  12,  1816;  was  Doorkeeper  of  the  State 
Senate  in  1845-46;  was  member  of  Assembly  in  1858, 
and  died  in  the  summer  of  1882.  The  General  married 


GENERAL  MARTIN  MILLER.  125 

and  died  in  the  summer  of  1882.  The  General  married  a 
sister  of  my  friend,  Garrett  M.  Van  Olinda,  who  is  now 
in  business  at  18  Harrison  street,  New  York,  and  one 
son  survives  him. 

For  a  few  days  during  the  time  of  the  Mexican  war 
the  sleepy  little  village  of  Greenbush  was  disturbed  over 
a  very  small  word  and  argument  ran  high.  Abram 
Van  Olinda,  brother  to  the  General's  wife,  had  raised  a 
company  of  volunteers  for  the  war,  and  the  citizens  of 
Greenbush  purchased  a  sword  to  be  presented  to  the 
Captain;  but  it  must  have  an  inscription  of  some  kind  to 
tell  who  presented  it  and  also  who  it  was  presented  to. 
A  few  had  agreed  that  the  blade  should  be  inscribed: 
"Presented  by  the  citizens  of  Greenbush  to  Captain 
Abram  Van  Olinda,  and  never  to  be  sheathed  but  with 
honor."  This  was  the  sentiment  of  Volkert  P.  Douw, 
Squire  Hogeboom  and  John  L.  Van  Valkenburgh. 
Isaac  Fryer  moved  to  strike  out  the  word  "but"  and  in- 
sert "except,"  and  Thomas  Miles  and  others  backed  him. 
The  inscription  hung  fire,  and  the  women  of  the  village 
took  it  up  and  hot  arguments  were  held  as  to  which  of 
the  two  words  was  the  best  to  use  in  the  inscription.  A 
meeting  of  all  who  had  subscribed  for  the  sword  was 
called  at  Fryer's  tavern,  and  after  much  argument  from 
each  side  "Mat"  Miller  was  asked  to  give  his  view  of 
how  the  inscription  should  read.  He  rose  and  said: 
:'  'Never  to  be  sheathed  but  with  honor'  is  good;  we  all 
know  what  it  means.  We  also  know  what  it  means  if 
we  say,  'Never  to  be  sheathed  except  with  honor/  and  it's 
only  a  choice  of  words,  and  'but'  is  Dutch."  That  settled 
it.  The  Douws,  Van  Valkenburghs  and  Hogebooms 
were  defeated  by  this  thrust.  Captain  Van  Olinda  was 
killed  while  leading  his  men  at  the  charge  on  the  heights 
of  Chapultepec,  on  September  13,  1847.  The  result  of 


126  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

which  was  sent  home,  and  is  still  in  the  possession  of  his 
family. 

Mat  Miller — I  love  to  think  of  him  as  "Mat" — was  a 
warm  friend  to  boys.  Perhaps  he  liked  some  boys  bet- 
ter than  others,  but  he  was  always  my  friend,  and  he  was 
the  manly  sort  of  man  that  I  could  look  up  to  with  con- 
fidence. He  was  a  man  when  I  was  a  boy.  When  I 
was  fourteen  he  was  thirty-one,  but  he  was  always  one  of 
us  on  such  frolics  as  have  been  related,  and  never  seemed 
to  know  of  that  gulf  which  separates  the  fun-loving  boy 
from  the  money-grubbing  man  which  some  men  de- 
velop into. 

General  "Mat"  Miller!  You  covered  yourself  all 
over  with  glory  when  you  attacked  a  desperate  burglar, 
who  outclassed  you  in  weight,  alone  and  single-handed 
in  the  old  "spook-house"  barn  and  brought  him  to  jus- 
tice. May  you  be  crowned  with  glory  now,  as  the  re- 
ward of  an  honest  life,  is  the  prayer  of  your  boyish 
friend. 


GARRETT   VAN    HOESEN. 

SPEARING   EELS   AND   TRAPPING  RABBITS. 

THE  village  boys  called  him  Garry  Van  Hooser, 
and  I  am  not  sure  but  the  whole  family  pro- 
nounced it  in  that  way;  but  Garry  could  write, 
and  he  spelled  the  name  as  it  is  given  above.  He  had 
been  a  clerk  in  the  grocery  of  Thomas  B.  Simmonds 
since  my  earliest  memory,  and  had  none  of  the  Dutch 
accent  common  to  his  people,  for  at  this  late  day  the 
descendants  of  the  original  settlers  of  the  Upper  Hudson 
often  spoke  Dutch,  and  their  English  had  an  accent 
which  Garry  had  lost  by  frequent  contact  with  other 
people.  He  was  older  than  I  by  some  six  to  ten  years, 
and  was  a  shy  young  man,  who  never  seemed  to  have 
any  companions,  and  often  went  fishing  and  shooting 
alone  or  with  his  spaniel  Coody,  which  was  a  good  re- 
triever. He  told  me  where  he  got  the  dog,  but  where  its 
name  came  from  even  he  did  not  know.  He  said:  "Oh, 
I  do*  know;  he  had  to  have  a  name,  and  I  just  called  him 
Coody." 

That  settled  the  matter  to  the  satisfaction  of  Garry, 
the  dog  seemed  to  be  pleased  with  the  name,  and  who 
could  object? 

One  day  in  '48,  after  the  election  of  General  Taylor 
as  President,  when  the  ice  was  just  thick  enough  for 
skating,  I  had  been  told  to  stop  at  the  grocery  for  some- 
thing when  I  came  home  to  supper,  and  Garry  said:  "I 
am  going  up  to  the  mill  pond  in  the  morning  to  spear 
eels.  How  would  you  like  to  go  with  me?" 

"First-rate;  what  must  I  take  along?" 

127 


128  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"Nothing  but  a  pair  of  woolen  mittens;  your  hands 
will  freeze  without  them.  I'll  put  up  all  the  grub  we 
want.  Meet  me  here  about  nine  in  the  morning  and 
we'll  start." 

During  the  night  about  two  inches  of  snow  fell.  The 
morning  was  still  and  clear,  and  the  snow  was  soft  and 
dry.  Garry  carried  the  basket  and  axe,  while  I 
shouldered  the  long  spear  up  past  schoolhouse  and  along 
the  railroad,  which  then  came  down  to  the  lower  ferry, 
to  the  mill  pond  away  up  by  the  red  mill.  The  snow 
was  blinding  as  we  faced  the  morning  sun,  and  it  also 
reflected  every  sound.  The  far-off  crows  seemed  close 
at  hand,  a  little  sapsucker  pecking  on  a  tree  made  a  great 
rapping,  and  we  could  hear  what  the  men  were  saying 
down  at  the  mill.  "Why  is  it  so  still  after  a  fall  of 
snow?"  I  asked. 

It's  always  that  way  after  a  snowstorm,"  he  answered, 
and  I  went  along  not  entirely  satisfied  with  his  laconic 
answer,  but  accepted  his  statement  of  fact.  Some  philos- 
ophers give  us  equally  lucid  explanations  and  take  a 
whole  volume  to  do  it  in. 

"A  week  from  now  the  ice  will  be  too  thick  to  spear 
eels,"  he  said,  "and  it  would  take  half  an  hour  to  cut  a 
hole.  It's  just  right  now,  nearly  four  inches,  and  no  one 
has  been  spearing  here  this  year.  Down  yonder,  in  the 
bend,  is  where  they  bed;  the  water  is  deep  there." 

All  eels  bed  in  the  mud  in  cold  weather,  and  an  eel 
spear  for  soft  bottom  has  a  stout  central  tine  barbed  on 
both  sides;  then  come  flexible  tines,  about  five  on  each 
side,  with  barbs  on  the  inside  only.  The  tines  are  nearly 
a  foot  in  length,  and  radiate  from  the  pole-stock  in  a 
flat  plane,  which  is  some  10  inches  wide  at  the  lower  end. 
Rigged  with  a  light  pole,  twenty  feet  or  more  long,  the 
mud  is  sounded  in  a  regular  manner  in  a  circle  of  per- 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN.         129 

haps  thirty  feet  in  diameter.  When  an  eel  is  struck  the 
spear  does  not  pierce  it,  but  holds  it  by  the  spring  of  the 
tines,  which  open  and  clasp  it.  It  was  soon  apparent 
why  woolen  mittens  were  an  essential  part  of  the  outfit. 
As  they  became  wet  they  were  warm,  even  with  ice  on 
the  outside  of  them,  just  as  a  boy's  foot  will  be  warm 
after  the  first  chill  when  his  boot  is  full  of  ice  water  if 
his  stocking  is  of  wool.  But  continual  freezing  to  an 
icy  spear  handle  is  hard  on  a  mitten. 

I  watched  Garry  begin  sounding  under  the  hole  and 
then  increase  the  circle  until  the  spear  handle  was  at  an 
acute  angle  with  the  ice,  throwing  the  spear  strongly  into 
the  mud  and  then  withdrawing  it.  He  brought  up 
sticks,  brush  and  an  occasional  eel,  which  soon  stiffened 
on  the  snow.  "How  can  you  tell  whether  it's  an  eel  or  a 
stick?" 

"That's  easy  enough;  try  it." 

He  chopped  me  a  new  hole  and  I  made  a  thrust. 
"Harder,"  said  he;  "shove  it  hard  or  the  barbs  won't 
snap  on  'em,"  and  I  sent  the  spear  into  the  mud.  An 
eel?  No,  a  stick!  After  landing  several  sticks  some- 
thing was  struck  that  wiggled  and  sent  little  thrilling 
pulsations  up  the  staff,  and  then  I  knew  all  that  is  to  be 
known  about  spearing  eels  through  the  ice.  It  is  not  a 
high  class  sport,  but  it  gives  a  boy  an  excuse  for  an  out- 
ing in  winter  and  is  a  healthful  exercise.  This  thing  of 
exercise  is  better  understood  to-day  than  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  men  who  go  out  with  rod  and  gun  are  not 
thought  to  be  idle,  good-for-nothing  fellows,  as  they 
were  thought  to  be  half  a  century  ago.  Not  that  I  was 
not  an  "idle,  good-for-nothing  fellow,"  who  preferred  a 
day's  shooting  or  fishing  to  a  week's  r  confinement  in 
school,  but  I  am  speaking  in  a  general  way,  excepting 
"present  company." 


130  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

About  noon  Garry  flung  the  spear  in  the  snow  and 
said:  "I'm  hungry;  what  do  you  say?" 

Now  that  the  matter  was  mentioned,  there  did  seem 
to  be  something  lacking,  and  without  giving  it  that  pro- 
found consideration  which  Garry  gave  to  questions,  I 
answered  him  in  his  own  simple  style:  "So'm  I."  All 
the  morning  I  had  been  as  silent  as  he;  in  fact,  when  a 
fellow  gets  shut  up  with  such  short  answers  as  are  here 
recorded  there  is  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  shut  up. 
But  how  I  did  want  to  talk  about  the  habits  of  eels,  what 
they  found  to  eat  in  the  mud  and  other  things.  Away 
up  the  pond,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  man  was  chop- 
ping wood.  The  sound  of  his  stroke  did  not  reach  us 
until  his  axe  was  raised  again.  I  asked  father  about  this 
when  I  got  home,  but  I  did  not  intrude  the  question  on 
Garry.  He  did  not  then  encourage  talk. 

We  went  ashore  by  a  spring  and  made  a  fire.  Garry 
opened  the  basket  and  brought  out  bread,  butter  and 
sausages.  Just  how  he  could  cook  the  last  was  a  mys- 
tery, and  they  could  not  be  eaten  raw.  Bolognas  were 
unknown  then,  as  this  was  before  the  German  invasion 
and  the  era  of  limburger,  schweizerkase,  bolognas, 
pretzels  and  lager  beer.  I  gathered  dry  fire  wood  and 
watched.  He  dragged  two  longs  limbs  and  rested  one 
end  of  each  upon  a  low  stump.  This  was  table  and 
chairs.  Then  he  took  birch  twigs  and  ran  them  length- 
wise through  the  sausages  and  stuck  them  up  before  the 
fire.  The  ground  being  frozen,  he  held  them  nearly 
erect  by  pieces  of  wood,  and  there  they  fried  in  their 
own  fat,  the  birch  twigs  imparting  no  bad  flavor.  A  tin 
cup  of  water  from  the  spring  served  for  both,  and  if  a 
hungry  boy  astride  a  branch  of  a  tree  with  a  big  birch 
chip  for  a  plate  did  not  do  full  justice  to  his  appetite  then 
he  never  did. 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN.  131 

Many  a  dinner  did  I  eat  after  that  one,  but  this  was 
so  exceptionally  good  that  it  stands  out  in  bold  relief. 
During  weary  months  in  military  prisons  the  odor  of 
those  sausages  came  in  hungry  dreams.  The  white 
bread  from  Jonas  Whiting's  bakery  and  the  butter  from 
Dennison's  farm  were  often  remembered  in  days  when 
such  remembrance  was  more  substantial  than  anything 
in  sight. 

That  dinner  is  memorable  for  another  thing.  It 
opened  up  a  human  mind.  John  Atwood  had  said: 
"Garry  Van  Hooser  never  talks  because  he  doesn't  know 
anything  to  talk  about.  He  just  knows  enough  to  weigh 
a  pound  of  tea  and  say,  'Yes'm,  fifty  cents.' '  When  I 
told  John  a  little  of  this  trip  he  was  incredulous.  The 
eels  were  in  evidence,  however;  he  couldn't  deny  them. 

After  we  had  destroyed  the  dinner  and  Garry  had 
lighted  his  pipe,  he  remarked  between  puffs:  "When 
spring  comes  we  will  go  down  in  the  dead  creek  and 
shoot  ducks.  I  often  go  there  alone,  but  have  felt  that 
I  wanted  some  one  to  be  with  me,  some  one  to  talk  to 
at  times.  I  went  down  there  once  with  John  Atwood, 
but  he  talked  all  the  time  and  scared  the  ducks  away. 
Now  you  don't  break  in  when  a  man  is  thinking,  and 
we've  had  a  good  time.  I  don't  know  what  you  were 
thinking  about  when  we  were  spearing,  but  I  thought 
that  if  it  is  true  that  this  world  is  round  and  turns  over 
every  day,  how  is  it  that  the  water  does  not  spill  out  of 
the  holes  we  cut  in  the  ice,  and  why  the  weight  of  the 
trees  does  not  pull  'em  out  of  the  ground  when  they're 
upside  down.  I  don't  say  that  I  don't  believe  it,  but  I 
can't  understand  it;  and  men  that  know  more  than  I 
seem  to  believe  it,  but  they  can't  tell  just  how  it  is.  I 
never  had  much  schooling,  and  this  thing  has  bothered 
me  for  years.  It  keeps  me  awake  nights  and  bothers  me 


132  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

daytimes.  If  I  ask  about  it  they  make  fun  of  me.  Now 
you've  had  a  good  education  and  I  want  to  know  what 
you  think  about  this  thing,  and  if  you  don't  know  how  it  is 
don't  tell  that  I  asked  about  it;  for  there's  a  lot  o'  fools 
that  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  this  business,  and 
don't  care,  that  are  always  ready  to  make  fun  of  a  fellow 
who  does  want  to  know." 

This  was  the  longest  speech  that  I  had  ever  heard 
Garry  make  up  to  that  time.  I  explained  the  rotation  of 
the  earth  as  well  as  I  understood  it,  and  afterward  gave 
him  what  literature  bearing  on  the  subject  I  could  find, 
and  his  reserve  was  thrown  off.  He  was  a  different  man 
to  me,  and  I  soon  liked  his  simple,  honest  ways,  his  stu- 
dious mode  of  looking  into  things  and  his  philosophical 
conclusions.  Every  man's  mind  is  a  study,  a  curiosity, 
if  you  will,  if  you  have  time  and  inclination  to  look  into 
it.  It  is  curious  because  it  differs  from  yours. 

After  his  long  speech,  delivered  between  puffs  on  his 
pipe,  and  my  explanations,  there  was  a  period  of  silence. 
Then  he  asked:  "Did  you  ever  trap  any  rabbits?" 

"No;  I've  shot  a  few,  but  never  trapped  any.     Why?" 

"What  time  do  your  folks  have  breakfast?" 

Without  seeing  any  intimate  connection  between  the 

trapping  of  rabbits  and  the  hour  when  our  family  broke 

their  fast,  I  replied:  "In  summer  at  seven  and  in  winter 

at  eight.     What's  that  got  to  do  with  catching  rabbits?" 

"I  was  thinking  that  you'd  have  time  to  tend  the  traps 

if  you  could  get  up  about  six  o'clock.     Then  you'd  be 

back  in  time  to  get  breakfast  and  go  to  school.     There's 

lots  o'  rabbits  up  in  the  woods  back  o'  the  rye  field,  and 

I've  got  six  box  traps  in  the  old  barn  there.     If  you'll 

see  to  'em    every    morning   we'll    go    over    there    now 

and  set  the  traps  before  we  go  home.      What  d'  you 

say?" 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN.         133 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  I'll  do  it.  It  must  be  heaps 
o'  fun.  Come  on." 

We  crossed  over  to  the  rye  field — a  field  as  well 
known  to  every  boy  as  the  ball  ground,  where  no  one 
drove  us  off,  but  which  had  been  a  pasture  since  my 
recollection — and  carried  the  traps  into  the  woods. 
Garry  had  got  some  sweet  apples,  and  we  set  a  trap  here 
and  there  where  rabbit  signs  were  thickest. 

"When  you  come  to  a  trap  in  the  morning,"  said  he, 
"if  it  is  still  set  you  want  to  see  that  the  bait  is  there  and 
the  cord  or  the  spindle  is  not  frozen  so  that  it  can't  work. 
If  it  has  been  sprung  you  want  to  go  slow  and  find  out 
what's  in  it.  If  it's  a  skunk  he'll  let  you  know  when  you 
touch  it  with  your  boot,  and  then  you  want  to  tie  a  long 
string  to  the  cover  and  let  him  walk  out.  If  it's  a  rabbit, 
put  in  your  hand  and  take  it  out." 

"Won't  it  bite?" 

"No,  they  never  bite.  The  best  way  to  kill  them  is 
to  hold  their  hindlegs  in  your  left  hand,  and  hit  'em  with 
a  stick  in  the  back  of  the  neck." 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  do  it.  I  can  shoot  one,  but  I 
know  I  could  never  do  that." 

"Yes,  you  could;  it's  easy  enough.  But  if  you  are 
afraid  to  do  it  that  way,  take  a  bag,  put  the  mouth  of  it 
over  the  trap,  dump  them  into  it,  and  bring  them  down  to 
me." 

That  seemed  the  best  way.  I  was  not  afraid  to  kill 
a  rabbit  by  shooting  it — Garry  did  not  understand  me — 
but  the  bag  scheme  let  me  out  and  it  was  settled  in  that 
way.  We  went  back  to  the  mill  pond,  gathered  our 
basket  of  eels  and  went  home.  I  promised  to  let  Garry 
know  how  many  rabbits  I  had  and  to  let  him  do  the 
killing. 

Next  morning  I  was  up  very  early.     There  had  been 


134  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

a  light,  drizzling  rain  during  the  night,  and  now  there 
was  a  hard  crust  on  the  snow  which  crunched  under  foot 
and  made  a  great  noise.  The  first  trap  was  approached 
with  a  quickening  pulse,  and  my  heart  was  beating  high 
as  it  was  neared.  Alas!  it  was  unsprung  and  the  cord 
was  frozen  fast.  The  crust*  did  not  tell  if  the  trap  had 
been  visited,  but  the  apple  was  untouched.  All  the  traps 
were  in  the  same  condition,  but  I  fixed  them  so  that  they 
would  spring,  and  on  the  way  home  reported  the  facts  to 
Garry. 

"You  needn't  have  gone  to  them  this  morning,"  said 
he,  "for  you  might  have  known  that  a  rabbit  would  not 
go  out  and  get  all  covered  with  ice  in  a  rain  like  that  one 
last  night." 

I  might  have  known,  but  with  a  head  filled  with  the 
excitement  of  a  first  visit  to  rabbit  traps,  with  the  ex- 
pectation that  at  least  one  rabbit  might  be  found  in  each, 
I  never  thought  that  they  might  prefer  dry  hides  to  my 
traps. 

The  next  night  was  clear  and  crisp,  and,  oh,  how  cold 
that  morning  was!  The  stars  seemed  to  echo  my  tread 
on  the  crackling  crust  as  I  trudged  along.  The  first 
trap  was  unsprung,  and  my  faith  in  taking  rabbits  in  box 
traps  was  shaken.  Old  tracks,  made  before  the  crust 
was  formed,  were  abundant,  and  there  was  "sign"  on  the 
crust  where  no  tracks  could  be  seen.  Surely  there  were 
rabbits  there,  if  they  could  only  be  caught.  These  were 
the  thoughts  when  the  second  trap  was  sighted.  It  was 
sprung!  The  rapid  puffing  of  an  early  freight  train  on 
the  railroad  below  did  not  exceed  the  beating  of  my 
heart.  Cold  as  it  was,  a  perspiration  broke  out  all  over 
me.  Pshaw!  Perhaps  the  string  had  broken  or  the 
trigger  had  slipped  from  the  notch! 

I  stood  for  a  moment  like  one  in  a  dream.     Could  it 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN. 


135 


be  that  the  trap  actually  held  a  rabbit?  I  went  up  to  it 
and  kicked  it  lightly  with  my  boot.  There  was  no  indi- 
cation of  an  "essence  peddler"  in  the  air  and  I  peeped  in. 
There  was  the  game  crouched  in  the  far  end.  I  let  the 
trap  down,  and  for  a  few  moments  enjoyed  my  triumph. 
I  was  a  mighty  trapper !  Me ! 

This  was  long  before  the  deer  episode,  and  a  rabbit 
was  the  largest  game  that  I  aspired  to.  Heart  never 
beat  faster  over  a  first  grizzly  or  bighorn  than  mine  did 
then.  As  I  have  said,  I  had  shot  an  occasional  rabbit; 
but  this  early  morning  tramp  over  crusted  snow  seemed 
somehow  to  make  the  event  seem  like  the  life  of  a  real 
woodsman.  A  great  part  of  Greenbush  was  asleep,  and 
here  was  I  in  the  forest  with  its  largest  game  in  my 
power! 

I  carefully  adjusted  the  bag  over  the  trap  and  then 
opened  it.  There  was  a  thud  in  the  bottom  of  the  bag, 
and  then  a  glimpse  of  something  gray  and  a  sound  of 
"zip,  zip,"  and  if  that  was  really  a  rabbit  it  was  gone. 
The  unexpected  had  happened.  That  was  all  I  knew, 
and  there  was  a  period  of  depression  such  as  always  fol- 
lows intoxication.  After  pulling  my  scattered  senses  to- 
gether, I  reset  the  trap  and  went  on.  The  third  trap( 
held  a  rabbit,  and  with  the  last  failure  in  mind  great  care 
was  exercised  in  arranging  the  bag.  No  mistake  this 
time !  I  knew  how  to  hold  him.  I  knew  how,  but  some- 
how the  same  thing  happened  again.  The  second  time 
the  unexpected  occurred,  and  some  old  philosopher  has 
said  that  this  is  the  only  thing  that  ever  does  occur.  I 
was  despondent  and  demoralized,  especially  when  the 
next  two  traps  were  found  empty.  As  the  sixth  and  last 
trap  was  sighted,  the  fact  that  it  was  sprung  started  no 
heart  pumping.  I  was  cooler  now  that  I  had  seen  just 
where  the  last  rabbit  got  out.  The  bag  had  been  tight 


136  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

around  the  trap  until  the  trap  was  opened;  the  top  and 
front  end  were  nailed  together,  and  the  bag  left  a  hole  on 
each  side  when  the  trap  was  opened.  Twice  was  enough. 
The  mistake  should  not  occur  again.  Remembering 
what  Garry  had  said  about  a  rabbit  not  biting,  I  put  in  a 
hand  and  brought  the  trembling  animal  out  in  some  way, 
either  by  the  ears  or  the  hindlegs;  memory  fails  to  recall 
how,  but  it  does  bring  back  the  pitiful  cries  that  rang 
through  the  woods.  This  troubled  me,  but  I  hardened 
my  heart  and  dropped  the  game  in  the  bag,  and  started 
for  home  with  my  prize,  in  triumph  not  unmixed  with 
other  feelings. 

With  bag  on  shoulder  I  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
to  drink  the  strong  sulphur  water  of  Harrowgate  Spring, 
of  which  Colonel  Raymond  and  I  were  so  fond  in  boy- 
hood. Here  the  events  of  the  morning  were  reviewed  in 
cold  blood.  Hardly  two  hours  had  passed,  but  the 
crowded  events  made  it  seem  ten  times  as  long.  The 
little  creature  was  still  now,  probably  wondering  what 
would  come  next.  After  pondering  for  a  while  on  the 
escape  of  the  two  rabbits  and  taking  another  swig  of 
Harrowgate,  the  recollection  of  those  pitiful  cries  came 
up  in  full  force.  Then  I  seemed  to  realize  that  they 
came  from  a  poor,  terrified  and  harmless  thing  that  I  was 
taking  to  be  killed  without  the  excitement  of  the  hunt. 
I  peeped  into  the  bag.  Two  large  eyes  and  a  trembling 
form  were  in  the  corner.  Somehow  the  grip  on  the 
mouth  of  the  bag  was  loosened,  the  bottom  was  turned 
up  and  a  white  lump  of  cotton  in  a  field  of  gray  went 
bobbing  off  into  the  brush. 

When  I  entered  Tom  Simmonds'  store  I  said  to 
Garry:  "Here's  your  bag;  I  haven't  got  any  rabbits  and 
don't  want  any.  I'll  go  up  and  spring  the  traps  after 
school;  it's  time  for  breakfast  now." 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN.         137 

It  was  months  afterward  before  I  told  him  the  whole 
story,  and  he  said:  "Well,  I  don't  know  as  I'd  like  to  kill 
a  rabbit  if  it  cried  like  that.  The  fact  is  I  built  the  traps 
some  two  years  ago,  and  after  some  such  scrape  as  yours 
I  left  them  in  the  barn.  Some  boys  like  to  trap  rabbits, 
but  I  don't  care  anything  about  it;  I  only  thought  you 
might  like  it." 

I  am  not  so  chicken-hearted  as  this  story  makes  me 
out.  I  have  been  a  trapper  for  fur;  will  tell  you  about 
this  later,  and  I  never  had  the  slightest  feeling  of  pity  for 
a  bloodthirsty  mink,  marten  or  other  animal  of  that  class. 
I  have  killed  them  in  steel  traps,  found  them  frozen  to 
death  in  them,  and  have  seen  where  they  left  a  leg  be- 
hind, and  never  felt  more  pity  for  these  merciless  brutes 
than  I  do  for  an  oyster  when  I  eat  it  alive.  Somehow 
the  very  helplessness  of  a  rabbit  appeals  to  a  fellow,  and 
its  plaintive  cries — I  give  it  up!  I  let  that  rabbit  go 
that  morning  by  the  waters  of  Harrowgate,  and  that  is 
all  there  is  of  it.  I  have  tried  to  make  a  story  of  it  and 
failed. 

Once  or  twice  after  the  eel  spearing  scrape  Garry 
asked  me  to  fish  with  him,  and  the  other  boys  wondered 
at  it.  Some  years  later  we  shot  ducks,  yellow-legs  and 
rail  along  the  dead  creek,  an  inlet  on  the  island  below 
Douw's  Point,  and  above  the  hilly  dwelling  of  "der  Yaw- 
cum  Stawts  wot  lives  on  de  Hokleberic."* 

This  creek  is  now  filled  up,  and  is  known  no  more 
except  as  a  low,  marshy  spot.  We  had  a  good  day  once ; 
two  mallards,  a  wood  duck  and  some  half  a  dozen  rail. 
A  very  good  day  it  was,  for  ducks  were  wild  and  not 

*This  is  a  phonetic  spelling,  as  the  Albany  Dutch  spoke  it  when  they 
referred  to  Joachim  Staats,  who  lived  on  the  Hogleberg,  or  "hog's  hack," 
the  only  hill  on  the  island,  just  hack  of  the  landing  known  as  Staats' 
dock. 


138  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

plenty,  when  Garry  crawled  up  to  a  flock  and  got  three. 
Coody  retrieved  them,  but  unfortunately  they  proved  to 
be  tame  ducks,  and  the  owner  came  down  on  Garry.  I 
was  below  and  kept  still,  hoping  for  a  shot  if  anything 
came  my  way.  After  waiting  a  while  a  mud  hen  got  up 
below  me,  flying  low,  and  I  shot.  I  missed  the  mud  hen, 
but  hit  Garry  in  the  back  of  the  leg,  and  he  promptly 
yelled.  He  had  paid  the  man  for  his  ducks  and  then 
went  around  back  of  me,  hidden  by  the  brush,  and  was 
just  in  time  to  intercept  a  few  shot  that  the  mud  hen 
failed  to  get  because  of  its  haste.  The  shots,  some  half 
a  dozen,  were  only  under  the  skin  in  the  calf  of  his  leg, 
and  I  had  no  trouble  in  taking  them  out  with  a  pocket 
knife. 

Said  Garry:  "It's  lucky  that  I  was  below  the  bird,  or 
your  lead  would  have  gone  in  deeper." 

"What  were  you  doing  down  below  me  and  how  did 
you  get  there?  I  didn't  see  you.  I  thought  you  were 
up  above  squaring  it  with  the  man  for  his  tame  ducks.  I 
suppose  he  wanted  twice  what  they  were  worth." 

"No,"  said  Garry,  "he  won't  charge  much;  he  trades 
with  us,  and  will  bring  me  the  ducks  and  settle  to-mor- 
row. I  wouldn't  like  to  take  up  a  lot  of  tame  ducks; 
the  boys  would  laugh.  Now,  see  here!  If  you  promise 
never  to  tell  that  I  shot  into  a  flock  of  tame  ducks  I'll 
give  you  my  word  that  I  won't  say  a  word  about  your 
shooting  me  in  the  leg.  Is  it  a  go?" 

"It's  a  go!"  Garry  is  dead  and  it's  a  long  time  ago. 
As  both  stories  are  told  now  for  the  first  time,  I  don't  see 
that  any  harm  is  done  to  him.  Neither  of  us  meant  to 
do  it,  and  after  all  the  intention,  in  a  shooting  case,  is 
always  carefully  considered  by  a  jury. 

Garry  was  short  and  stout,  wore  his  face  without  hair, 
and  his  teeth  were  stained  by  tobacco.  I  should  think 


GARRETT  VAN  HOESEN.  139 

he  might  have  been  born  about  1825,  but  while  I  knew 
of  his  death  and  attended  his  funeral,  I  have  pressed 
every  button  in  memory  for  an  approximate  date,  but  the 
wires  seem  to  be  crossed.  Mr.  Garrett  M.  Van  Olinda 
thinks  he  died  in  1861,  and  that  seems  likely. 

I  only  know  that  he  married  about  three  weeks  before 
he  died.  It  was  like  this:  I  was  in  Greenbush  one  day 
and  he  invited  me  into  the  back  room. 

"I  want  your  advice,"  said  he,  "and  I  ask  it  because  I 
am  only  a  raw  countryman  and  you  have  more  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  than  I  have." 

This  almost  took  my  breath.  If  he  was  contem- 
plating the  opening  of  a  grocery  in  opposition  to  Tom 
Simmonds  and  Mat  Miller  it  was  useless  to  consult  one 
like  me,  whose  only  object  in  life  so  far  had  been  to  get 
what  fun  he  could  out  of  it,  and  whose  knowledge  of 
business  was  nil.  Of  course  I  did  not  formulate  all  this 
then — I  was  merely  surprised  and  asked:  "What's  up, 
Garry?" 

He  thought  a  moment  and  then  said:  "I  am  thinking 
about  getting  married,  and  am  in  doubt  whether  it  is  the 
best  thing  to  do  or  not.  What  do  you  think?" 

If  memory  reflects  my  mind  at  that  time,  I  did  not 
think.  Here  was  a  man  who  was  shy  of  men  and  boys, 
one  whose  business  compelled  him  to  talk  to  women  and 
girls,  but  whose  shyness  cut  the  conversation  to  the 
strictest  business  limits.  I  was  astounded.  Pulling  my 
scattered  wits  together,  I  said:  "Why,  Garry,  I  never 
heard  of  your  keeping  company  with  a  girl;  who  is  she?" 

He  told  me,  but  it  was  no  one  that  I  had  ever  heard 
of.  Said  he:  "She  is  the  nicest  girl  I  ever  saw,  and  she 
conies  to  the  store  every  day  and  I  can  talk  to  her  by  the 
hour.  She  is  not  a  bit  like  the  other  girls  that  come  in. 
I  wish  you  could  see  her." 


140  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

That  settled  the  marriage  question.  Of  course,  I 
had  nothing  to  say,  and  he  didn't  expect  I  would  have, 
but  he  was  compelled  to  confide  his  secret  to  a  human 
being  of  some  kind,  and  the  one  before  him  served  his 
purpose. 

In  after  years  whenever  a  box  trap  was  stumbled  on 
in  the  woods  it  brought  up  the  picture  of  Garry  Van 
Hoesen,  the  shy,  sensitive  fellow  who  longed  for  human 
sympathy,  but  from  a  lack  of  aggressiveness  or  an  ex- 
cess of  diffidence,  self-consciousness  or  whatever  you 
please  to  call  it,  seemed  lonesome  in  this  great  bustling 
world.  If  I'd  brought  him  that  rabbit  he  would  not 
have  killed  it. 

In  after  years  I  fished  with  men  of  all  conditions  in 
life,  men  of  high  character  and  men  of  no  character 
worth  mentioning,  men  of  education  and  intelligence 
and  those  who  had  neither,  but  among  them  all  I  have  a 
warm  spot  in  my  memory  for  simple,  honest  Garry  Van 
Hoesen. 


STEPHEN   MARTIN. 

TRAP  AND   RIFLE   SHOOTING — THE  WAR   CLOUD. 

STEVE  was  a  different  sort  of  fellow  from  any  of  the 
boys  of  whom  I  have  written.  He  came  into  our 
boyish  set  after  we  went  across  the  river  to  live, 
and  I  naturally  dropped  into  Scott's  occasionally  by  day, 
but  frequently  in  the  evenings.  W.  J.  &  R.  H.  Scott 
made,  sold  and  repaired  guns  on  Beaver  street,  between 
Broadway  and  Green  street,  and  after  their  rival — poor 
Steve  Van  Valkenburgh — died,  theirs  was  the  only  place 
of  the  kind  in  Albany.  Gunners  of  all  kinds  had  busi- 
ness there,  and  every  evening  a  few  could  be  found  in 
the  salesroom  discussing  all  kinds  of  questions  pertain- 
ing to  guns,  their  proper  loads  and  powers,  as  well  as  tell- 
ing their  personal  experiences  while  trying  to  conceal 
the  exact  location  of  a  bit  of  snipe  bog  or  partridge 
cover. 

We  boys  soon  got  acquainted — it  never  takes  boys 
long  to  do  that,  especially  if  they  have  a  common  interest 
in  anything.  Martin  was  one  that  dropped  in  there,  and 
as  he  was  about  the  age  of  our  party  he  went  with  us 
on  a  fishing  trip  to  Normanskill,  a  brook  which  rises 
somewhere  off  toward  the  Helderbergs  and  enters  the 
Hudson  a  few  miles  below  Albany.  We  called  it  the 
Normanskill  Creek  in  ignorance  that  "kill"  was  Dutch 
for  creek,  and  that  the  added  word  was  a  repetition,  but 
then  what  would  you  do  with  Kaaterskill,  anglicized  into 

141 


142  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Catskill  as  the  name  of  a  village,  a  range  of  mountains 
and  a  stream?  And  then  the  word  creek  is  used  in  New 
York  for  a  bayou  or  arm  of  a  river  which  forms  an  island, 
like  the  Popscheny,  and  also  for  a  brook  or  even  rivers 
like  the  East  and  West  Canadas,  which  form  the  great 
Mohawk.  All  this  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
Steve  Martin,  the  subject  now  under  the  scalpel  and 
microscope.  A  cog  slipped  and  some  ink  went  astray — 
only  this  and  nothing  more. 

The  day  was  quite  young  when  we  reached  the 
stream  near  its  mouth  and  some  distance  below  the  first 
dam.  ,  George  Scott  was  going  to  try  a  new  bait,  and 
had  brought  a  lot  of  fresh-water  mussels — Unio — "for," 
said  he,  "if  these  things  aren't  good  for  bait,  what  good 
are  they?  What  do  they  have  shells  on  'em  for  if  it  is 
not  to  keep  the  fish  from  eating  'em?" 

"Lemme  smell  'em,"  said  Steve,  and  he  took  a  sniff 
and  with  a  look  of  disgust  said:  "George,  a  fish  couldn't 
eat  that  thing;  you  can't  eat  it,  and  it's  my  opinion  that 
nothing  will  eat  it.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Fred?" 

"I  dunno ;  the  only  way  to  find  out  is  to  try  'em.  Old 
John  Chase  has  used  'em  for  bait  in  his  eel  pots,  and  he 
wouldn't  fool  his  time  with  the  things  if  they  are  no 
good.  I've  seen  him  pick  up  a  peck  on  the  flats  at  low 
tide.  Hogs  eat  them,  and  Port  Tyler  said  that  some 
kinds  of  wild  ducks  eat  the  little  ones.  I  don't  see  why 
they  shouldn't  be  as  good  as  clams  or  oysters;  they  live 
like  them." 

"Oysters!"  yelled  Steve,  "I'll  bet  you  daren't  taste 
of  one.  Nobody  eats  them,  and  I  believe  they're 
poison."" 

"I'll  eat  one  if  you  will." 

"That's  fair,"  said  George  Scott. 

Pete  Loeser  remarked:  "I  dink  Stefe  he  vas  scart  to 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  143 

eat  von  of  dose  muschels,  he  don'd  got  some  pepper- 
sauce.  Oh,  Stefe,  you  vas  scart  und  you  pack  oud!" 

The  question  had  assumed  a  personal  form.,  and  Steve 
was  getting  warm.  The  reflection  on  his  courage  braced 
him  up,  and  after  giving  Pete  a  look  which  might  have 
meant  that  he  would  like  to  cut  him  up  for  fish  bait,  he 
asked,  "Where  is  the  pepper  and  salt?"  These  things 
put  before  him,  he  selected  a  mussel  of  medium  size, 
groped  about  until  he  found  one  to  match  it  in  size  and 
shape,  and  with  one  in  each  hand  he  offered  me  the 
choice  in  the  courtly  manner  that  duellists  are  reported 
to  do  upon  the  field  of  honor.  My  careless  challenge 
might  have  been  passed  by  if  only  Martin  and  I  had  been 
present,  but  the  comment  of  Loeser  settled  it.  A  contest 
was  unavoidable.  A  choice  was  made,  and  each  opened 
his  mollusk,  salted  and  peppered  it  with  deliberation. 
Then,  eye  to  eye,  we  raised  the  shells  and  took  in  the 
contents. 

Charley  Scott,  brother  to  George  and  the  firm  of  gun- 
smiths, watched  the  faces  of  the  contestants  closely,  and 
after  the  last  morsel  was  swallowed  by  each  said:  "Well, 
if  mussels  ain't  good  to  eat,  you  fellows  lie.  I've  been 
a-waitin'  to  see  one  of  you  weaken  on  'em,  but  you  only 
looked  at  each  other  as  if  you  were  chewin'  oysters." 

The  truth  is  that  we  afterward  acknowledged  to  each 
other  that  fresh-water  mussels  might  be  good  for  fish 
bait,  but  we  had  no  very  great  desire  to  eat  any  more. 
There  is  a  remembrance  of  a  combination  of  toughness, 
sweetness  and  sliminess  which  did  not  provoke  an  appe- 
tite for  more.  We  put  on  a  bold  front  and  challenged 
the  other  boys  to  try  them.  Martin  even  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  they  were  as  good  as  oysters.  This  state- 
ment was  received  with  some  doubt,  and  Charley  Scott 
suggested  that  if  Steve  thought  so  he  could  save  money 


14:4:  MEN  /  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

by  using  them  in  place  of  the  salt-water  product.  George 
offered  to  eat  one  if  we  would  each  eat  another,  but  the 
German  was  mean  enough  to  ask :  "Oof  Stefe  dinks  dose 
dings  was  so  goot  we  oysders,  vy  don'd  he  ede  'em  some 
more?"  A  yell  turned  the  conversation;  George  had 
thrown  his  line  back  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  the  hook 
took  Loeser  in  the  ear,  and  tore  a  hole  big  enough  to  let 
it  be  taken  out  easily.  Years  afterward,  at  a  dinner  of 
the  Ichthyophagous  Club,  we  had  a  bisque  or  some  other 
preparation  of  Unios  fixed  up  by  the  chef  of  one  of  New 
York's  crack  hotels,  and  I  tasted  it,  with  a  thought  run- 
ning back  to  an  early  day  on  the  Normanskill.  After 
tasting  it  I  looked  around  to  see  how  the  rest  enjoyed 
it.  Frank  Endicott  made  a  show  of  taking  frequent 
spoonfuls,  but  his  plate  seemed  as  full  as  ever.  Mr.  E. 
G.  Blackford  tasted  it  and  said:  "That  is  very  fine,"  but 
somehow  let  it  go  at  that;  and  when  the  waiter  removed 
his  plate  you  could  not  miss  what  had  been  eaten.  No 
doubt  the  mussels  are  good,  but  you've  got  to  learn  to 
like  'em.  I  never  persevered  in  this  direction.  As  bait 
that  day  they  took  a  few  fish,  but  the  verdict  of  the  boys 
was  that  they  preferred  the  old  reliable  angle  worm. 

Down  in  the  lower  end  of  Albany  is  a  portion  called 
Bethlehem,  and  on  the  river  road  was  the  Abbey,  a  noted 
road-house  a  couple  of  miles  below  the  city.  An  Eng- 
lish sportsman  named  Kenneth  King  lived  in  Bethlehem, 
and  the  Abbey  was  kept  by  another  English  shooting 
man  named  Sheldrick,  who  got  up  pigeon  shoots,  and 
we  boys  used  to  attend  them.  At  these  affairs  we  used 
to  make  matches  to  shoot  at  ten  birds  each,  the  loser  to 
pay  for  and  the  winner  to  have  them.  One  day  after 
the  shooting  was  done  Martin  said  to  me:  "We  are  not 
going  to  shoot  any  more  because  there  are  not  enough 
pigeons  for  a  match,  but  as  your  gun  is  loaded  and  there 


STEPHEN   MARTIN. 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  145 

are  a  few  pigeons  left,,  I'll  shoot  you  a  match  of  two  each. 
We  want  to  shoot  off  our  guns,  any  way.  What  d'ye 
say?" 

I  had  left  my  gun  standing  in  the  corner  while  I  had 
gone  on  the  front  porch  for  something,  and  had  just  re- 
turned when  Steve  made  this  proposal.  "All  right/'  said  . 
I,  "we  might  as  well  shoot  at  a  couple  more  and  empty 
our  guns  before  going  home."  He  picked  up  his  gun, 
and  as  I  reached  for  mine  Ken  King  quickly  passed  me 
his  and  with  a  wink  said:  "Take  mine." 

Without  thought  I  went  to  the  score  after  Steve  had 
killed  one  of  his  birds  and  missed  the  other,  and  killed 
both  of  mine.  The  boys  laughed,  and  Steve  looked  sur- 
prised as  I  hastily  walked  back  and  put  up  King's 
gun.  While  they  were  talking  things  over  outside  King1 
asked  me:  "Do  you  know  why  I  gave  you  my  gun  to 
shoot?" 

"No,  but  you  gave  me  a  wink  and  I  asked  no  ques- 
tions. Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"When  you  went  out  on  the  front  porch  Steve  drew 
the  wads  and  took  the  shot  out  of  both  barrels  of  your 
gun.  See  the  joke?  They're  talking  about  it  now." 

I  went  out  and  took  my  three  birds;  Steve  paid  for 
four  and  merely  remarked:  "Well,  you  beat  me  this 
time ;  we'll  have  to  try  it  over  again  next  Saturday." 

As  we  got  ready  to  start  I  stepped  back  and  shot  off 
both  barrels,  and  Steve  asked:  "What  gun  did  you  kill 
the  pigeons  with?  I  thought  it  was  your  own." 

"No,  I  used  Ken  King's  to  see  how  it  shoots,  as  we 
may  want  to  trade.  It  shot  very  well;  couldn't  have 
done  better.  When  I  shot  off  my  gun  just  now  it  made 
a  light  report;  perhaps  I  forgot  to  put  shot  in  it." 

Steve  made  no  reply,  but  Pete  Loeser  said:  "I  kess, 
Stefe,  he  dinks  dere  vas  no  shot  dere;  hey,  Stefe?" 


146  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

The  laugh  was  on  Stephen,  and  the  boys  guyed  him 
so  that  he  had  to  own  up,  but  after  that  event  we  each 
kept  our  guns  in  sight  at  pigeon  matches. 

It  was  after  this  that  I  bought  the  pointer  Nell  from 
Ken  King,  the  one  referred  to  in  former  sketches,  and 
King  showed  us  the  woodcock  grounds  on  the  Albany 
side  of  the  river,  and  we  shot  with  him  over  his  dogs  and 
Nell.  Sometimes  when  he  was  not  with  us  we  consulted 
Mrs.  Sheldrick,  who  was  well  posted  on  these  matters, 
and  far  more  communicative  than  her  husband.  In  her 
vocabulary  "birds"  meant  woodcock  only;  all  others 
were  spoken  of  by  name.  For  instance,  she  would  say: 
"Well,  boys,  you  won't  find  many  birds  in  the  swamps 
this  morning;  you  might  get  an  odd  one  up  in  the  corn- 
field after  the  rain  last  night,  but  you  can  find  plenty  o' 
pigeons  in  yon  wood,  an'  mebbe  some  plover  on  the  hill 
or  a  few  yellow-legs  along  shore.  But  birds  '11  be  scarce 
to-day." 

Steve  was  wonderfully  good  on  woodcock,  and  usual- 
ly beat  us  all  in  bringing  down  that  bird  of  erratic  flight. 
He  used  a  short  gun  of  twelve-gauge.  Just  how  short 
the  barrels  were  is  more  than  I  would  like  to  say  now — 
perhaps  twenty  inches — while  my  gun  was  an  extra  long 
one  of  twelve  inches  more.  I  once  saw  him  drop  five 
"birds"  in  succession  in  a  swampy  thicket  where  this 
swift,  dazzling  bird  would  drop  out  of  sight  within 
twenty  yards,  and  this  was  not  an  exceptional  case. 
Those  who  have  shot  this  quick,  zigzagging  bird  in  close 
thickets  are  the  only  ones  who  know  just  how  quick  and 
unruffled  a  shooter  has  to  be  to  get  a  fair  proportion  of 
the  birds  he  flushes.  They  had  all  learned  from  Ken 
King  the  lesson  which  I  had  been  taught  by  Port  Tyler 
in  former  years,  to  use  small  shot  in  small  quantity,  with 
a  very  light  charge  of  powder,  for  this  kind  of  shooting 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  147 

at  close  quarters,  in  order  not  to  mutilate  this  royal  game 
bird. 

Steve  went  with  us  on  several  fishing  trips,  but  never 
in  the  open  season  for  game;  fishing  amused  him  when 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do;  it  was  fun,  but  hardly  sport 
to  him.  He  cared  little  for  camping  out,  or  for  the  fields 
and  streams  outside  of  the  fact  that  game  abounded  in 
one  and  fish  in  the  other;  hence  I  said  at  the  beginning 
of  this  article  that  he  differed  from  any  of  those  of  whom 
I  have  written.  He  was  impatient  of  any  delay,  and 
eager  to  be  stirring;  hence  some  of  the  ingredients  of  a 
good  fisherman  had  been  left  out  of  his  mental  make-up. 

In  the  early  '50*5  there  was  an  epidemic  of  rifle  shoot- 
ing in  the  State  of  New  York.  Not  shooting  at  game — 
that  is  one  of  our  steady  and  never-decreasing  infirmities ; 
but  this  prevalent  disorder  took  the  form  of  long-dis- 
tance target  shooting.  Heavy  rifles  were  shot  on  bench 
rests  at  six  hundred  yards,  mainly  in  winter  on  the  ice 
below  the  city.  They  had  "patent  muzzles,"  a  detached 
piece  with  pins  to  set  over  the  true  muzzle  while  seating 
the  bullet  in  order  to  leave  the  muzzle  perfectly  square, 
the  enlargement  necessary  to  start  the  bullet  in  the  way 
it  should  go  being  entirely  in  the  false  muzzle.  These 
guns  were  all  hand-made.  If  there  were  machine-made 
rifles  in  those  days  I  never  heard  of  them.  All  rifles  were 
hand-made.  Soldiers  did  not  use  them;  their  muskets 
were  smooth-bores,  and  it  was  believed  that  rifling  was  a 
principle  that  would  work  well  up  to  a  certain  calibre, 
but  was  only  practicable  for  guns  which  were  shot  from 
the  shoulder.  For  field  pieces  which  threw  a  six-pound 
shot  it  was  believed  to  be  useless,  because  it  was  thought 
that  the  weight  of  the  projectile  would  prevent  it  from 
following  the  twisted  groove.  To-day  they  rifle  not 
only  the  largest  cannon,  but  even  mortars.  In  the  '6o's 


148  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

I  handled  rifled  guns  up  to  those  known  as  one  hundred- 
pound  "Parrots/'  but  now  such  a  gun  is  only  a  toy,  and 
our  ten-inch  seacoast  mortars  with  their  smooth  bores 
are  obsolete.  This  digression  is  not  for  the  benefit  of 
the  old  fellows  who  know  all  this,  but  is  intended  for  the 
boys  of  to-day  who  have  the  cartridges  for  their  breech- 
loading  shotguns  filled  for  them  before  they  go  afield, 
and  whose  machine-made  magazine  rifles  are  wonderful 
pieces  of  mechanism.  Remember,  boys,  in  my  shooting 
days  we  went  afield  with  powder  flask  on  one  shoulder, 
shot  pouch  on  the  other,  cap  box  and  either  cut  wads  or 
newspapers  for  wadding  in  the  pockets.  If  we  shot  the 
rifle  we  moulded  our  own  bullets,  measured  our  powder 
and  carried  greased  linen  patches  to  envelop  the  bullet, 
a  ramrod  and  box  of  caps.  Such  a  thing  as  buying  pre- 
pared ammunition  was  not  dreamed  of. 

There  was  a  little  squad  of  rifle  shooters  from  both 
sides  of  the  river  which  met  in  contests  on  the  ice.  There 
was  Billy  Wish,  the  ferryboat  engineer;  William  Tall- 
man,  Sr.,  a  machinist;  Steve  Martin,  and  John  Clark,  a 
printer,  who,  in  spite  of  having  but  little  color  in  his  eyes, 
was  the  best  shot  of  all.  It  has  been  said  that  gray-eyed 
men  make  the  best  rifle  shots,  but  Clark's  eyes  were 
lighter  than  gray. 

The  shooting  was  counted  by  string  measure,  and 
the  targets  were  displayed  nightly  at  Scott's.  Such  dis- 
cussions over  the  wind  in  explanation  of  a  bad  shot,  and 
such  arguments  over  the  merits  of  rifle  makers,  would 
fill  volumes  of  Forest  and  Stream.  The  merits  of  Lewis 
and  James  as  makers  of  rifles  was  the  main  point.  One 
lived  in  Troy  and  the  other  in  Syracuse,  and  they  were 
always  going  to  shoot  a  match  with  rifles  of  their  own 
makes,  but  like  some  gladiators  of  to-day  it  ended  in  talk. 
Billinghurst,  of  Rochester,  was  another  famous  maker; 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  149 

I  remember  him  because  he  made  the  first  open  reel  for 
fishermen.  Scott  made  a  rifle  for  Martin,  and  he  in- 
duced me  to  join  the  shooting  and  use  his  gun.  There 
was  no  betting,  just  pure  sport,  and  I  tried  it.  The  rifle 
was  sighted  long  and  deliberately,  then  a  rest  of  the  eye 
and  it  was  gone  over  again  until  the  shooter  had  it  as  fine 
as  he  knew  how.  Then  the  flags  were  watched,  with 
the  eyes  off  the  rifle,  until  the  long  strings  of  muslin 
hanging  from  the  poles  placed  at  intervals  showed  the 
wind  to  be  right,  and  the  hair  trigger  was  touched. 

I  never  made  much  of  a  shooter  of  this  kind ;  my  eyes 
blurred  at  one  hundred  yards  then  and  they  do  at  twenty 
feet  to-day,  although  I  read  and  write  without  glasses  at 
sixty-three.  Black-eyed  Steve  Martin  was  a  fair  shot, 
but  that  did  not  satisfy  him ;  he  always  had  an  excuse  for 
not  being  first — the  powder  was  not  as  good,  the  patch 
was  too  thick  or  too  thin,  a  puff  of  wind  came  just  as  he 
pulled  the  trigger,  etc. 

Pete  Loeser  once  said:  "Stefe  he  shoot  pooty  goot, 
but  never  so  besser  as  he  can ;  dere  vas  alvays  sometings 
dot  spile  his  string.  Oof  dot  clout  had  not  come  der  sun 
between  ven  he  make  der  sixt  shot  he  peat  Shon  Glark 
all  hollow.  I  dink  he  makes  besser  string  in  te  efening 
by  Scott's  stofe,  by  shimminy!" 

To  this  George  Scott  replied:  "Pete,  if  you  could 
make  half  as  good  a  score  as  Steve  you  might  be  proud. 
There  are  his  targets,  look  at  'em;  they  show  a  splendid 
average,  and  one  hard  to  beat.  It's  not  a  good  one  for 
two  or  three  days  and  then  a  durned  bad  one,  but  a 
steady,  good  lot  of  shooting  day  by  day." 

"Dot's  all  ride,"  said  Pete;  "but  he  alvays  got  some 
oxcuse  for  de  one  shot  wot  makes  de  oder  nine  figger 
oop  big  on  de  averich." 

Just  then  Steve  came  in  and  George  said :  "Steve,  you 


150  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

are  just  in  time.  Pete  says  you  can't  hit  a  pancake  if  it's 
tied  over  the  muzzle  of  your  gun." 

"That  may  be  so,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Pete. 
If  you'll  stand  one  thousand  yards  down  on  the  ice  and 
let  me  shoot  a  pipe  out  of  your  mouth,  I'll  buy  you  a 
new  hat  if  I  don't  break  the  pipe." 

Another  way  in  which  Steve  Martin  differed  from  my 
other  fishing  companions  was  that  he  was  a  practical 
joker.  Now,  fun  is  one  thing  and  "practical  joking"  is 
another.  In  the  mind  of  the  p.  j.  they  are  the  same  thing, 
but  no  other  human  being  agrees  with  him  because  the 
fun  is  all  on  his  side,  and  the  misery  of  others  is  his  joy. 
Therefore  he  is  a  selfish  mortal  and  that  settles  him.  We 
were  once  rowing  round  Douw's  Point  against  a  stiff 
current,  just  all  that  two  pairs  of  oars  could  do  to  make 
a  bit  of  way  at  the  extreme  point.  The  scow  had  a 
plugged  hole  in  the  bottom  to  let  out  water  without  tip- 
ping her  over  when  beached.  As  we  were  near  the 
shore  Steve  said:  "I  guess  I'll  lighten  the  boat,"  and 
jumped  ashore,  taking  the  plug  with  him.  The  water 
was  up  and  wet  our  feet  before  we  noticed  it,  and  we 
were  only  saved  from  a  ducking  by  promptly  beaching 
the  little  scow.  The  author  of  the  mischief  was  up  the 
bank  and  off.  A  new  plug  was  whittled  out  and  we 
went  our  way  scolding,  not  so  much  at  what  had  hap- 
pened as  at  what  might  have  occurred. 

Of  course  he  was  forgiven,  although  he  never  asked 
to  be,  but  for  a  time  he  was  made  to  feel  that  his  fun 
was  not  appreciated  by  the  boys  that  were  in  the  boat. 
We  often  shot  together  over  Nell  at  woodcock,  snipe, 
golden  plover  and  shore  birds.  He  sometimes  took  her 
out  alone,  and  when  I  learned  that  he  was  trying  to  make 
her  retrieve  I  protested.  Steve  insisted  that  a  pointer 
could  be  taught  to  retrieve  as  well  as  a  setter,  and  in- 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  151 

stanced  one  that  we  both  knew,  but  I  still  objected.  She 
was  lost  for  about  a  month  before  I  went  West  in  '54,  but 
Steve  found  her  after  I  had  gone,  and  so  she  came  into 
possession  of  my  father,  as  mentioned  in  a  former  sketch. 

When  I  returned,  over  five  years  later,  my  old  chums 
were  looked  up.  Steve  had  grown  into  a  strong  man, 
Pete  Loeser  had  gone  West,  George  Scott  had  acciden- 
tally killed  himself  while  pulling  a  loaded  gun  from  a 
bed,  and  quite  a  number  of  changes  had  taken  place.  I 
did  but  little  at  fishing  or  shooting  for  a  year,  and  then 
the  war  broke  out.  Some  time  in  July,  1861,  Steve  told 
me  about  the  scheme  of  Colonel  Hiram  Berdan  to  recruit 
a  company  of  sharpshooters,  every  man  of  which  must  be 
able  to  make  a  string  of  ten  shots  at  a  certain  distance 
whose  united  measurements  from  the  centre  of  the  target 
should  not  exceed  a  certain  number  of  inches.  I  forget 
the  figures,  but  they  were  not  in  excess  of  the  scores 
usually  made  by  the  riflemen  on  the  ice. 

"Now,"  said  Steve,  "you  can  pass  this  test;  it  is  not  a 
severe  one — merely  intended  to  get  men  who  are  fair 
shots,  and  know  how  to  use  and  care  for  a  rifle.  After 
enlistment  and  muster  every  man  will  be  given  the  rank 
and  pay  of  a  second  lieutenant,  and  will  have  a  darkey  to 
carry  his  rifle  and  equipments.  I've  heard  you  say  you'd 
like  to  go,  and  here  is  your  chance.  I'll  go  if  you  will." 

"Steve,"  said  I,  "there  is  much  doubt  if  my  score 
would  pass ;  you  know  that  I  do  not  see  well  at  a  distance, 
and  besides  this  my  family  affairs  forbid  my  going. 
That's  a  queer  story  about  the  enlisted  men  ranking  as 
commissioned  officers;  where  did  you  get  that?" 

"Why,  that's  the  arrangement  between  Colonel  Ber- 
dan and  the  War  Department;  the  men  will  all  be  com- 
missioned after  they  are  mustered  into  the  United  States 
service ;  at  least  that  is  what  they  tell  me." 


152  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

While  it  was  out  of  the  question  for  me  to  think  of 
going  at  that  time,  and  as  there  was  then  no  doubt  but 
the  trouble  would  be  all  over  in  a  few  months  and  my 
services  would  not  be  needed,  still  this  story  of  the  rank 
of  enlisted  men  seemed  strange.  I  knew  little  of  mili- 
tary matters,  but  I  had  friends  who  were  well  posted.  I 
met  Colonel  Michael  K.  Bryan,  of  the  Twenty-fifth  State 
Militia,  afterward  Colonel  One  Hundred  and  Seventy- 
fifth  New  York  Volunteers,  who  was  killed  at  Port  Hud- 
son on  June  14,  1863,  and  sez  I  to  Colonel  Mike,  sez  I: 
"Colonel  Bryan,  our  friend,  Steve  Martin,  tells  me  that 
in  the  regiment  of  sharpshooters  which  Colonel  Berdan 
is  raising  every  enlisted  man  will  be  a  second  lieutenant 
after  his  muster  into  the  United  States  service.  How  is 
this?" 

"Steve  proposed  to  you  to  enlist?" 

"Yes;  said  he  would  if  I  would." 

Then  Colonel  Mike  sez  he  to  me,  sez  he:  "That's  a 
beautiful  bit  of  gossamer  from  Steve's  workshop,  spun 
to  catch  such  green  bottles  as  you.  A  regiment  of  sec- 
ond lieutenants!  I  suppose  the  corporals  must  be  cap- 
tains and  the  sergeants  field  officers,  and  just  how  they 
would  find  rank  enough  for  the  drum  major  only  Steve 
could  tell.  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  had  authority  to  raise 
a  company  for  this  regiment  and  already  had  his  com- 
mission as  captain?" 

"No,  that's  all  news  to  me.     Is  it  so?" 

"Yes,  he  has  the  company  partly  filled  and  his  com- 
mission has  been  issued." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Colonel;  I  think  I  under- 
stand the  situation  now.  Good  morning." 

This  was  some  time  in  late  July,  and  I  talked  with 
Steve  often  and  he  appeared  anxious  to  enlist  if  I  would. 
Nearly  six  years  among  men  who  were  simple  in  their 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  153 

ways  had  shown  its  effect.  I  was  very  green!  The  fact 
was  painfully  evident,  and  after  a  month  or  more  of  lis- 
tening to  Steve  and  doing  a  little  thinking,  I  said:  "I 
heard  yesterday  that  the  Governor  had  given  you  a  cap- 
tain's commission  in  Berdan's  sharpshooters." 

"Yes,  I  got  it  last  week.  You  see,  I  had  been  at 
work  for  the  regiment  because  I  was  bound  to  go  out 
with  it,  and  my  friends  told  this  to  the  Governor,  and  he 
said  that  I  deserved  a  captaincy  and  issued  the  commis- 
sion at  once.  Now  I'm  in  a  position  to  make  you  a 
definite  proposition.  The  other  company  officers  have 
not  been  appointed,  and  will  not  be  until  the  company 
is  full,  and  if  you  will  enlist  with  me  I  will  have  you  ap- 
pointed first  lieutenant  before  we  leave  the  State." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Steve,  old  boy!  I'll  think  it 
over.  Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  much  to  be  a  first  lieu- 
tenant in  a  regiment  wholly  composed  of  second  lieuten- 
ants; but  you  know  that  I  know  nothing  of  these  things, 
and  if  I  should  decide  to  go  with  you  of  course  I  trust  all 
this  detail  to  you  as  an  old  chum,  for  I  am  ignorant  of 
all  that  pertains  to  soldiering." 

"Very  well!  If  you  will  go  with  me  I'll  fix  you  all 
right  and  look  after  your  interests  as  I  would  my  own. 
That  story  about  the  privates  being  all  second  lieuten- 
ants is  not  true;  it  came  from  some  fellow  in  the  Ad- 
jutant-General's office,  but  that's  all  right  between  us. 
I'll  fix  it  right  for  you." 

I  went  home  that  night  and  in  a  dream  John  Atwood 
and  I  were  snaring  suckers  with  a  fine  copper  wire  on  the 
end  of  a  pole.  We  were  landing  them  bravely  for  a 
while,  and  then  things  got  into  one  of  those  queer  mix- 
tures that  dreams  are  only  capable  of  and  which  never 
untangle.  John  Atwood  disappeared  and  Steve  Martin 
stood  where  he  had  been,  and  as  he  lifted  an  unusually 


154:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

large  sucker  to  the  bank  I  felt  that  I  was  being  choked — 
and  awoke. 

The  rush  of  awakening  thoughts  brought  Longfel- 
low's lines: 

"  'Twas  but  a  dream;  let  it  pass, let  it  vanish  like  so  many  others! 
What  I  thought  was  a  flower  is  only  a  weed,  and  is  worthless." 

And  then  the  reply  of  Clarence  to  Brakenbury  came 
up: 

"Oh!  I  have  pass'd  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days." 

After  this  I  never  heard  of  Stephen.  I  looked  for 
him  in  the  army,  but  never  could  find  any  who  knew 
him.  When  we  lay  in  the  trenches  of  Cold  Harbor  for 
ten  days  within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  enemy  a  de- 
tachment of  Berdan's  sharpshooters  was  our  picket  as 
well  as  skirmish  line,  and  as  they  could  not  leave  their 
pits  in  daytime  and  live,  I  used  to  ask  after  Steve  when  a 
man  came  over  to  our  works  at  night  for  rations  or  am- 
munition, but  none  of  them  knew  him.  After  the  war 
none  of  the  boys  seemed  to  know  what  "got"  Steve. 
Phisterer's  "New  York  in  the  Rebellion,"  p.  517,  says 
of  this  regiment:  "Company  B,  Captain  Stephen  Martin, 
*  *  *  was  organized  at  Albany,  and  mustered  into 
the  United  States  service  for  three  years,  November  29, 
1 86 1."  The  official  register  of  volunteer  officers  gives 
his  resignation  as  November  15,  1861.  Therefore  I  am 
not  now  surprised  that  I  could  not  find  him  in  the  field, 
when  he  resigned  his  commission  fourteen  days  before 
his  company  was  mustered  into  the  service. 

Looking  all  this  over  in  the  light  of  riper  years,  I 


STEPHEN  MARTIN.  155 

have  been  impressed  with  the  high-minded  and  honor- 
able way  in  which  John  Atwood  snared  suckers.  There 
was  no  false  pretence  by  John.  He  did  not  take  the 
sucker  into  his  confidence.  Not  he!  The  loop  was 
lowered  in  plain  sight,  drifted  down  behind  his  gills  in 
broad  daylight — the  pole  jerked,  and  there  is  your  fish. 

As  I  recall  the  things  which  happened  years  ago  I 
have  great  respect  for  John's  honest,  straightforward 
methods. 


GEORGE  RAYNOR. 

DUCK  SHOOTING  AND  A  TRAGEDY. 

THE  time  came  when  school  was  left  and  business 
began.  The  happy  days  were  in  the  past.  No 
more  Saturday  holiday,  and  the  grind  of  record- 
ing shipping  marks,  weighing  goods  and  signing  re- 
ceipts, when  ducks  were  flying  down  the  river  and  car- 
loads of  venison  were  coming  in,  was  getting  too  much 
to  bear.  In  that  vast  and  vague  country  called  the  West 
there  was  freedom — and  game.  Finding  opposition 
useless,  father  sent  to  Michigan  for  his  rifle,  the  one  that 
William  and  Joe  Brockway  had  used  for  years,  and  gave 
it  to  me  when  I  left. 

Said  he,  "You  may  have  this  rifle,  if  you  are  bound 
to  go,  and  the  only  thing  I  ask  of  you  is  never  to  join 
any  expedition  that  goes  out  to  murder  poor  Indians." 

That  was  an  easy  thing  to  promise  because  there  had 
never  been  such  a  thought  or  desire.  I  was  twenty-one 
and  bound  for  the  great  West,  with  no  definite  idea  what 
part  of  it  would  be  best  to  go  to  or  just  what  was  to  be 
done  when  the  journey  ended.  Pete  Loeser,  the  Ger- 
man boy  mentioned  in  the  last  history,  wanted  to  go  to 
some  relatives  in  Wisconsin,  and  he  went  along.  At 
Chicago  we  could  decide  what  would  be  best  to  do,  and 
there  we  stuck. 

One  day  while  fishing  in  the  lake  off  the  breakwater 
an  old  gentleman  of  eighty  years  named  George  Raynor, 
who  had  frequently  fished  with  us,  told  me  this  story: 
"At  the  massacre  of  Wyoming,  in  1778,  my  old  parents 

156 


GEORGE  RAYNOR.  157 

were  killed,,  and  I,  a  boy  of  about  four  years  old,  was 
taken  by  the  Seneca  Indians  and  then  sent  to  Canada  by 
a  British  officer,  where  I  lived  with  a  farmer  until  I  ran 
away  and  shipped  on  a  vessel  that  went  to  England. 
There  I  worked  in  a  cutler's  shop  and  learned  the  trade. 
How  many  years  passed  I  don't  know,  but  the  desire  to 
get  back  to  America  grew  strong,  and  I  went  to  Liver- 
pool and  shipped  for  New  York.  By  this  time  I  was 
a  young  man,  and  I  worked  at  my  trade  until  I  saved 
money  enough  to  try  to  seek  my  relatives,  if  I  had  any. 
I  remembered  a  sister,  Susan,  and  a  brother,  John,  both 
older  than  I,  and  I  longed  to  see  them.  I  had  forgotten 
the  name  of  the  place  where  the  massacre  occurred,  and 
I  did  not  know  in  what  State  it  happened.  There  was 
an  indistinct  recollection  of  an  alarm  at  night,  a  hurrying 
to  arms,  and  the  burning  of  buildings  and  killing  of 
people.  I  had  kept  a  little  picture  book  with  my  name 
in  it.  One  day  a  lady  came  in  the  New  York  shop,  and 
bought  some  cutlery  to  be  shipped  to  some  point  in  Lu- 
zerne  County,  Pa.  The  name  of  the  place  seemed  fa- 
miliar, and  I  talked  with  her.  She  knew  of  my  people, 
and  the  result  was  that  I  went  there  and  afterward  mar- 
ried her  daughter That's  what  we  call  an  eel-pout 

that  Pete's  got.  The  fish  is  not  eatable.  Excuse  me, 
where  was  I?  Oh,  yes;  we  prospered,  and  all  went  well 
until  our  eldest  boy  was  killed  in  the  Mexican  war  and 
our  daughter  was  burned  to  death  in  a  fire  that  destroyed 
my  business  a  year  later,  and  with  my  wife  and  only  boy 
I  left  New  York  for  this  place  in  1848.  In  a  railroad 
accident  my  wife  was  killed  and  injuries  about  my  head 
hurt  my  eyes,  so  that  it  was  uphill  work  to  make  a  liv- 
ing until  my  boy  William  helped  out  by  singing  in  the 
church  choir.  Now  that  I  am  nearly  blind  he  is  my  sole 
support.  You've  heard  his  wonderful  tenor  voice  in 


158  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Warner's  Hall,  on  Randolph  street,  where  he  now  sings 
with  'Northrup's  Metropolitan  Minstrels/  " 

During  this  tale  the  fish  had  taken  my  bait  unnoticed, 
although  Pete  had  attended  to  business  and  taken  several 
fish.  The  story  as  told  by  the  old  man  had  made  me 
wish  he  would  stop,  for  there  was  no  fun  in  the  way  he 
told  it,  and  it  had  started  a  leak  in  my  eyes.  But  down  the 
breakwater — an  old  one,  not  in  existence  now — came  the 
sprightly  young  tenor,  who  put  his  arms  around  the  old 
man's  neck  and  kissed  him,  saying:  "Well,  father,  what 
luck  to-day?" 

"Billy,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  fear  I  have  not  fish 
enough  for  breakfast;  I  have  been  telling  your  friend  the 
family  history  because  he  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in  it, 
and  I  forgot  to  put  my  line  out.  Here  is  the  hook  and 
the  bait  by  my  side  now.  My  old  eyes  do  not  see  well 
enough  to  tell  if  a  hook  is  baited  or  not,  and  certainly 
cannot  see  if  the  line  is  in  the  water  or  is  coiled  up  at  my 
feet.  Now,  Fred,  don't  you  honestly  think  that  an  old 
man  who  has  lived  his  life  and  can't  see " 

"Here,  father,  stop  that.  You  must  meet  the  in- 
firmities of  age  and  accident  in  a  philosophical  manner. 
I  can  and  will  care  for  you  while  I  have  life  and  strength, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  of  that  talk." 

The  young  man  baited  his  father's  line  and  we  fished 
on.  This  eel-pout,  as  he  called  it,  was  a  new  fish  to  me 
then,  and  its  long,  flattened  head  and  eel-like  fins  made 
it  an  object  to  be  remembered.  This  specimen  was 
twenty  inches  long.  Pete  said:  "Py  chimminy!  he's  cot 
a  whisker  on  his  chin,  so  like  a  pullhead,  on'y  de  pullhead 
he  cot  fife  oder  six."  And  this  was  a  wonder  to  us,  for 
there  were  no  fish  with  barbels  where  we  had  fished  ex- 
cept the  bullhead  or  catfish.  We  found  the  fish  quite 
common  in  the  lake.  In  other  parts  it  is  called  "lawyer," 


GBORGE  RAY  NOR.  159 

"ling/*  and  has  several  names  besides  that  of  Lota,  which 
the  scientists  have  taught  us  to  believe  is  its  true  name- 
Twirling  the  sinkers  vertically,  and  letting  go  at  the 
proper  time,  we  cast  our  bait  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
breakwater  and  hauled  in  hand  under  hand,  and  a  good- 
sized  pike  perch  or  a  big  eel-pout  made  quite  a  fight  at 
the  end  of  a  long  line.  Even  the  common  yellow  perch 
ran  larger  than  we  were  accustomed  to  see  them,  and  we 
green  Eastern  boys  voted  it  the  finest  fishing  we  ever 
had. 

Mr.  Raynor  told  me  that  there  was  very  good  fishing 
in  the  South  Branch  of  the  Chicago  River  near  where  he 
lived  on  Van  Beuren  street.  Those  who  only  know  the 
Chicago  River  as  it  is  now  may  doubt  this  statement,  for 
in  its  black  and  ill-smelling  water  a  self-respecting  mud 
turtle  would  decline  to  live.  Yet  I  ask  to  be  believed 
when  I  say  that  many  good  fish  were  taken  from  the 
docks  in  the  South  Branch  by  myself  and  others  forty- 
four  years  ago.  As  a  rule,  the  fish  were  not  as  large 
as  those  taken  in  the  lake,  and  just  what  kinds  they  were 
is  partly  forgotten,  but  yellow  perch  were  plenty,  and  so 
were  small  dogfish — Amia.  These  latter  even  the  om- 
nivorous Pete  could  not  eat,  although  he  pronounced  the 
eel-pout  "Pooty  goot." 

The  old  gentleman  was  greatly  pleased  when  I  called 
at  his  house  for  him  to  go  and  fish.  He  said :  "It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  come  for  me;  very  few  care  to  bother 
with  a  man  when  he  is  no  longer  young  and  is  nearly 
blind.  I  often  think  I've  stayed  here  too  long,  and  only 
for  Billy " 

I  interrupted  with:  "Yes,  Billy  is  a  good  boy,  one  in 
a  thousand,  and  you  may  be  proud  of  such  a  devoted 
son."  Then  he  was  led  from  that  depressing  line  of 
thought  by  a  story  of  a  deer  hunt  in  northern  New  York, 


160  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

and  of  jolly  times  in  camp  with  Port  Tyler,  until  he  forgot 
his  infirmities  and  told  stories  of  fishing  in  salt  water  and 
of  shooting  bay  birds  on  Long  Island,  which  were  un- 
known sports  to  me.  He  became  enthusiastic  and  final- 
ly said:  "I'll  sing  you  a  hunting  song  which  I  learned  in 
England/'  and  after  crooning  for  the  key  sang  in  a  rich 
baritone,  a  little  shaky  with  age,  the  following,  which  I 
never  heard  before  nor  since: 


Some  love  to  roam  over  the  dark  sea's  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  wind  whistles  free. 
But  a  chosen  band,  in  a  mountain  land, 

Oh,  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 
The  deer  we  mark  thro'  the  forest  dark, 

And  the  prowling  wolf  we  track, 
Our  right  good  cheer  is  the  wild  boar,  here; 

Then  why  should  the  hunter  lack? 


Billy  Raynor,  the  exquisite  tenor,  came  honestly  by 
his  voice,  that  was  certain,  and  I  induced  the  old  gentle- 
man to  sing  it  until  both  words  and  tune  are  as  familiar 
to-day  as  then.  A  tolerably  musical  ear  told  me  long 
ago  that  if  I  ever  attempted  to  sing  the  police  would  pull 
the  house  on  the  suspicion  that  there  was  a  dog  fight  in 
the  back  room,  and  therefore  whenever  asked  if  I  can 
sing  I  quote  the  Hon.  Bardwell  Slote  and  reply:  "Those 
who  have  heard  me  say  I  can't."  But  in  my  house  is  a 
young  lady  and  a  piano,  and  on  the  wall  of  my  den  hangs 
a  banjo  of  the  vintage  of  1860,  and  its  strings  seem  to 
have  treasured  up  the  air  of  that  hunting  song  so  that  the 
piano  sympathizes  with  it,  and  the  young  lady  sings  the 
words  occasionally  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  afore- 
said implement  of  torture.  There  was  a  sort  of  "yo,  ho" 
chorus  which  is  forgotten.  The  second  verse  ran: 


GEORGE  RAYNOR.  161 

When  the  morning  gleams  o'er  the  mountain  streams 

Then  merrily  forth  we  go, 
To  follow  the  stag  o'er  the  slippery  crag 

And  chase  the  bounding  doe. 
For  with  steady  aim  at  the  bounding  game, 

And  a  heart  that  fears  no  foe; 
Thro'  the  darksome  glade  in  the  forest  shade, 

Oh,  merrily  forth  we  go! 

The  little  we  know  of  it  serves  to  bring  up  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dear  old  singer  who  sang  it  amid  the  unpoetic 
surroundings  of  the  Chicago  River  one  day  when  his 
poor  heart  was  lighter  than  usual. 

One  day  he  said:  "Billy  is  going  to  have  a  week  off, 
the  hall  is  to  be  renovated,  and  he  will  spend  his  vacation 
down  at  Kankakee  shooting  ducks,  and  last  night  he 
said  that  he  would  like  to  have  you  go  with  him  if  you 
could  get  off.  Poor  boy!  he  needs  a  week  off  if  anyone 
does;  working  in  the  office  of  the  grain  warehouse  all 
day  and  singing  at  the  minstrels  six  nights  and  in  the 
church  choir  twice  on  Sundays  keeps  him  so  busy  that  he 
never  has  an  hour  to  himself.  Only  for  me  he  would  not 
have  to  work  so  hard,  and  I  sometimes  think " 

"Now  see  here,  Mr.  Raynor,  this  is  only  an  idle  fancy 
of  yours.  Billy  is  a  busy  boy,  to  be  sure,  but  he  likes  it, 
and  his  main  delight  is  to  see  you  happy.  You  are  not  a 
burden  to  him,  but  it  is  his  pleasure  to  see  you  made  com- 
fortable. He  has  no  bad  or  expensive  habits,  and  I 
know  that  his  first  thought  is  about  you.  Drop  the  idea 
that  he  would  be  better  off  without  you.  I  believe  that  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do." 

"It  seems  good  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  he,  "and  it  is 
no  doubt  true;  but  my  mind  has  outlived  my  body,  and 
at  times  I  feel  morbid,  blue,  or  whatever  you  may  call  it. 
If  you  will  go  down  there  with  Billy  I  will  know  that  you 


162  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

and  he  will  look  out  for  each  other.  I  will  take  a  vaca- 
tion if  I  know  that  you  two  boys  are  together  taking  one. 
Will  you  go?" 

"I  will  find  out.  Like  Billy,  I  must  consult  others. 
To-morrow  night  you  will  know,  but  it  might  be  well  to 
have  the  invitation  from  Billy.  Surely,  he  cannot  expect 
me  to  go  with  him  without  a  direct  invitation ;  I  was  with 
him  last  night  and  he  did  not  mention  it." 

"Not  to  you,  but  he  first  consulted  me  as  one  whose 
approval  of  a  companion  for  a  week  seemed  to  him  to  be 
necessary.  No  matter  how  much  Billy  might  think  of 
you  he  would  want  his  father  to  know  the  kind  of  com- 
pany he  was  in  and  have  my  approval.  His  business  as- 
sociates are  not  always  his  social  ones,  and  like  the  wise 
boy  that  he  is  he  separates  them.  He  doesn't  care  to  ask 
your  companion,  Pete,  to  go  because  he  overheard  him 
say  something  about  his  kissing  me.  Billy  was  brought 
up  that  way,  and  doesn't  like  any  comment  on  his  kiss- 
ing his  father.  We  are  all  there  is  left  of  the  family,  and 
our  customs  are  our  own." 

A  ten-gauge  gun  was  hired,  and  we  went  down  some 
fifty  miles  south  of  Chicago  to  the  great  ducking  grounds 
of  the  Kankakee,  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much.  Even 
the  preparation  for  the  start  was  a  revelation  to  one 
whose  idea  of  duck  shooting  about  Albany  had  been  that 
it  was  a  large  day  if  he  got  ten  shots  and  four  ducks. 
Then  one  pound  of  powder  and  four  pounds  of  shot  was 
a  great  allowance,  and  more  than  half  of  it  was  lugged 
home  at  night  unless  it  was  expended  on  blackbirds,  rail 
or  other  small  game.  Therefore,  when  we  talked  over 
the  trip  and  came  to  the  detail  of  ammunition  I  was 
astounded  when  Billy  said :  "Let's  see,  six  days ;  well,  say 
twelve  pounds  of  powder,  fifty  pounds  of  shot — ounce 
and  a  quarter  to  each  load — that's  fifteen  ounces  of  shot 


GEORGE  RAYNOR.  163 

for  a  dozen  charges,  say  a  pound  for  a  dozen  loads  and 
a  hundred  shots  per  day ;  yes,  fifty  pounds  will  do  to  start 
with,  and  we  can  get  more  down  there  if  we  need  it,  but 
these  things  can  be  bought  cheaper  here." 

There  was  a  belief  which  I  cherished  that  I  had  done 
some  shooting,  and  had  on  one  occasion  loaded  up  with 
two  pounds  of  powder  and  eight  pounds  of  shot  for  a 
week's  sport,  but  Billy's  figures  staggered  me — meta- 
phorically speaking,  "they  took  my  breath  away."  As 
soon  as  I  could  come  up  to  the  surface  I  ventured  to 
ask:  "Have  you  ever  shot  down  there  at  Kankakee?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  go  down  there  in  spring  and  fall;  the 
ducks  are  plenty,  I  assure  you.  Did  you  think  that  I 
didn't  know  anything  about  the  place?" 

"No,  I  only  asked  for  information  because  the 
amount  of  ammunition  seemed  somewhat  larger  than  I 
have  been  accustomed  to  use,  but  if  you  think  it  is  what 
we  will  need  it's  all  right;  you  know  best." 

"You'll  need  it  all.  Have  everything  packed  for  the 
eleven  P.  M.  train  Sunday  night,  and  I'll  meet  you  at  the 
station  and  we'll  have  a  good  time  for  a  week." 

Such  flights  of  ducks!  Such  flocks  of  ducks!  The 
sky,  the  lower  air  and  the  water  was  full  of  them.  As 
Billy  rowed  our  little  boat  along  the  marshes  in  a  small 
stream  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  wasting  time  and 
missing  shots,  but  when  he  pulled  up  on  a  dry  point  of 
land  and  we  hauled  the  boat  ashore  and  propped  it  on 
edge,  the  reeds  and  rushes  with  which  we  covered  it 
made  a  splendid  blind  to  shoot  from.  No  decoys  were 
necessary;  the  ducks  were  uneducated  in  the  matter  of 
artificial  blinds,  and  came  past  ours  without  a  thought  of 
danger.  We  two  were  not  up  to  the  modern  plan  of 
having  several  guns,  or  the  slaughter  might  have  been 
greater.  Where  I  had  shot,  along  the  Popskinny,  a  half 


164:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

dozen  ducks  was  a  large  day's  shooting  and  one  was  not 
considered  bad.  Day  after  day  no  duck  was  bagged, 
and  a  few  rail  and  blackbirds  were  accepted  as  better 
than  nothing — with  the  hope  of  better  luck  next  time. 
On  those  trips  mud  hens  and  hell-divers,  or  even  a  shel- 
drake, was  counted  as  a  duck,  and  it  was  a  new  sensation 
to  be  told:  "Don't  shoot;  they're  only  sawbills." 

Accustomed  to  taking  in  everything  which  came 
within  range,  this  was  something  new.  The  fact  that  a 
gunner  could  sit  down  in  cold  blood  and  select  the  kind 
of  waterfowl  on  which  to  expend  ammunition  was  a  nov- 
elty. Instead  of  wishing  for  any  sort  of  duck  to  come 
within  shooting  range,  here  we  were  refusing  shots  to  all 
except  a  favored  (?)  few. 

It  was  cruel  shooting — cruel  because  it  was  waste- 
ful We  shifted  our  blind  so  that  we  shot  against  the 
wind  as  it  changed,  and  the  dead  ducks  drifted  to  us.  A 
cripple  that  escaped  the  first  fire  could  not  be  chased,  for 
we  had  only  one  boat,  and  if  not  killed  before  it  got  out 
of  range  it  crept  into  the  marsh  to  be  eaten  by  mink, 
gulls  or  hawks.  A  philosopher  might  ask  what  differ- 
ence all  this  made  to  the  duck:  whether  the  mink  or  the 
birds  got  him,  or  whether  his  carcass  passed  into  the 
hands  of  a  hotel  chef  and  was  served  to  a  convivial  party, 
with  the  accompaniment  of  celery  and  juice  of  the  vine? 

We  shot  only  at  mallards,  pintails,  widgeon  and  teal, 
letting  all  other  fowl  pass.  At  night  we  counted  out  153 
ducks  of  these  species — the  number  is  remembered  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  wonderful  duck  shooting  for  two 
guns  that  I  had  ever  dreamed  of — and  we  could  have 
taken  in  a  number  of  butterballs,  whistlers  and  other 
ducks  if  we  had  wished  to  kill  them,  but  Billy  said  they 
were  not  worth  wasting  powder  on. 

Heretofore  there  had  never  been  more  game  than 


GEORGE  RAY  NOR.  165 

could  be  taken  care  of  and  consumed  at  home  or  given 
to  friends,  and  the  presence  of  about  350  pounds  of  ducks 
in  the  boat  and  the  prospect  of  five  days'  more 
shooting  presented  a  problem.  What  could  we  do 
with  this  mass  of  game?  We  could  not  eat  much  of  it 
and  we  had  but  few  local  friends.  In  the  excitement  of 
shooting  these  questions  had  not  obtruded  themselves  as 
they  did  now.  Pondering  on  these  things,  I  asked: 
"Billy,  what  will  we  do  with  all  the  ducks?" 

"They  are  all  right;  there'll  be  a  man  at  the  landing 
to  meet  us  who  will  take  care  of  them;  there  he  stands 
now  waiting  for  us.  He  will  send  them  to  market  every 
day,  and  on  Saturday  we  will  keep  out  what  we  want  to 
take  home."' 

The  man  took  the  game  and  put  it  in  his  wagon  and 
drove  off  to  the  railway  station,  and  after  supper  he  came 
in  and  settled  up,  paying  us  $15.30  for  our  ducks,  or 
about  what  it  had  cost  for  the  expenses  for  ammunition 
and  travel.  This  was  certainly  paying  expenses,  and 
just  what  I  had  hoped  for  in  going  West,  but  somehow 
it  was  not  satisfactory.  It  brought  into  the  transaction 
a  mercenary  spirit  which  had  never  before  been  con- 
nected with  my  sport.  At  first  the  feeling  of  dissatisfac- 
tion was  vague  and  without  shape.  We  divided  the 
money  and  talked  it  over.  The  expedition  was  more 
than  successful  from  a  financial  point,  but  there  was 
something  in  my  manner  which  caused  my  companion 
to  say: 

"You  don't  seem  as  enthusiastic  as  you  did.  What's 
the  matter?  Don't  you  like  the  table  they  set  here,  or 
did  something  happen  down  in  the  marsh  which  dis- 
pleased you?  Be  frank  with  me,  and  spit  it  out  if  any- 
thing has  gone  wrong;  don't  sulk,  fire  it  out." 

Up  to  this  point  I  really  did  not  know  the  cause  of  a 


166  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

change  of  demeanor  which  had  been  noticed.  There 
was  only  a  dim  consciousness  of  something  unpleasant. 

"Billy,"  said  I,  "if  I  have  appeared  to  be  depressed  it 
is  because  our  ducks  were  carted  off  by  an  unknown  man 
to  be  sold  to  unknown  consumers  in  the  market.  Every 
duck,  pigeon  or  rabbit  that  I  ever  killed  before  to-day 
was  either  eaten  by  my  own  family  or  given  to  a  friend. 
Part  of  the  triumph  of  the  hunt  lay  in  the  bringing  of 
the  game  to  the  table,  and  as  my  friends  enjoyed  the  treat 
I  also  enjoyed  being  the  treater.  If  I  was  at  the  feast 
every  mouthful  eaten  by  each  individual  was  enjoyed  by 
me  as  a  contributor,  whose  hard  work  on  shore  or  upland 
was  rewarded  by  the  knowledge  that  others  were  enjoy- 
ing the  fruits  of  my  skill  and " 

"That  you  are  a  blooming  egotist  whose  personality 
enters  into  every  duck  or  other  game.  Is  that  what  you 
mean?" 

"Billy,  you  have  put  it  into  words  which  are  strictly 
true,  but  were  in  a  nebulous  condition  in  my  brain.  You 
have  summed  up  the  case  in  a  masterly  way.  Never  be- 
fore did  I  measure  the  value  of  game  of  any  kind  in 
money,  although  I  have  had  a  desire  to  turn  my  love  of 
field  sports  into  a  way  of  making  a  living.  This  desire 
was  in  a  crude  form  before  this,  but  now  that  the  man 
has  carted  off  my  game  to  be  eaten  by  men  who  do  not 
thank  me  for  it,  do  not  know  me,  and  may  be  drunk 
when  they  eat  it,  I  wish  I  had  my  ducks  and  he  had  his 
money " 

"Well,  you'll  go  out  in  the  morning  and  shoot  some 
more,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I'll  build  a  blind  and  use  the  boat  to  chase 
cripples.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  wounded  duck  go  off  into 
the  marsh  to  die  or  to  be  eaten  by  minks  or  gulls.  It 
isn't  right." 


GEORGE  RAYNOR.  167 

"All  right,"  said  he;  "anything  to  keep  peace  in  the 
family,  but  down  here  ducks  are  too  plenty  to  go  chasing 
cripples.  The  gunners  here  will  think  you  are  crazy  to 
waste  your  time  in  that  way  and  scare  off  a  flock  to  get  a 
cripple.  Go  ahead,  though;  I  don't  care." 

I  tried  it,  but  it  did  keep  flocks  from  coming  our  way. 
Some  gunners  one  hundred  yards  below  protested,  and 
the  chasing  of  cripples  was  stopped. 

We  shot  six  days.  The  first  day  more  than  paid  all 
expenses  of  the  trip,  and  there  was  a  good  balance  in  our 
favor  as  well  as  thirty  ducks  among  our  plunder  on  our 
return  Saturday  night.  The  ducks  we  gave  to  friends, 
and  when  Pete  Loeser  received  a  pair  and  heard  the  story 
he  said:  "Py  shimminy,  de  air  must  pe  so  full  mit  ducks 
dere  vos  no  room  for  shot  to  co  between  dem  ven  dey 
fly.  I  never  dinks  dere  vos  so  many." 

I  had  an  invitation  to  dine  with  Mr.  Raynor  and  his 
son  next  day,  and  the  old  gentleman  was  very  jolly  and 
sang  the  hunter's  song  and  that  sweetest  of  old  English 
ballads,  "Sally  in  Our  Alley,"  while  the  son,  who,  like  all 
professional  singers,  usually  declined  ,to  sing  on  social 
occasions,  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  ladies  gave  us 
"Mary  of  Argyle"  and  several  other  songs.  When  the 
others  had  retired  Mr.  Raynor  beat  me  at  two  games  of 
chess,  the  clock  struck  midnight  and  the  vacation  week 
ended. 

The  winter  closed  in  and  before  spring  I  could  now 
and  then  checkmate  my  elderly  friend,  and  when  that 
happened  he  would  explain  how  it  could  not  have  been 
done  if  he  had  not  made  a  certain  move  some  ten  moves 
back  of  the  finish.  He  was  a  delightful  old  man  when 
his  mind  was  off  his  physical  troubles,  and  he  and  his 
son  were  devoted  to  each  other.  As  soon  as  the  ice  was 
out  of  the  river  he  sent  me  word  to  come  up  and  fish 


1G8  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

with  him  the  first  moment  possible.  His  bodily  infirm- 
ities had  increased,  and  he  had  now  but  one  eye  that  was 
of  service,  and  that  was  very  poor.  I  baited  his  hooks 
and  threw  out  his  line,  and  when  he  pulled  in  a  fish  saw 
that  the  hooks  did  not  enter  his  hands.  He  was  quite 
despondent  one  day.  Said  he:  "Freddy,  my  boy,  I  won- 
der that  the  good  Lord  doesn't  take  me.  Many  a  time 
I've  asked  Him  to  call  me,  but  for  some  reason  He  does 
not  do  it.  I  am  only  a  burden  on  Billy,  and  the  pains  in 
my  head  from  that  railroad  accident  are  more  than  I  can 
bear.  Billy  has  a  severe  cold,  and  has  been  laid  off  sev- 
eral days ;  if  anything  should  happen  to  him  I " 

Things  were  getting  uncomfortable,  and  to  turn  the 
tide  I  ventured  to  say:  "Don't  worry  about  Billy;  we  all 
have  colds  and  get  over  them ;  of  course,  he  couldn't  sing 
in  his  present  state,  but  he'll  be  all  right  i,ext  week. 
There!  That  fish  is  off  and  your  bait  is  all  right  again." 

Billy's  cold  did  not  get  better,  and  I  was  called  to  sit 
up  with  him.  Pneumonia  developed  and  the  old  man 
had  to  be  removed  from  his  room.  Pete  had  gone  to 
Wisconsin,  and  the  minstrel  boys  and  the  church  choir 
sent  watchers  in  such  numbers  that  they  could  not  be 
,  used. 

It  was  my  duty  to  superintend  the  watchers  and  com- 
fort the  father,  but  the  end  came  in  a  few  days.  Rela- 
tives from  Boston  came  to  the  funeral,  but  Mr.  Raynor 
clung  to  me  and  insisted  on  my  being  with  him  at  the 
last  sad  rites. 

The  next  day,  while  walking  up  Market  street,  I 
heard  a  little  girl  say:  "They've  found  a  drowned  man  in 
the  river;  come  on,  Maggie,  let's  go  down  and  see  him." 
I  followed  along  in  idle  curiosity  and  saw  the  man.  It 
was  the  body  of  an  old  man,  and  I  gave  his  name  to  the 
coroner. 


CHARLES   GUYON. 

GIGGING    FISH    IN    WISCONSIN — SHOOTING   A    PEER   WITH 
WOODEN    PLUGS. 

THE  little  mining  town  of  Potosi  lies  in  the  south- 
west corner  of  Wisconsin.  It  ha*  three  streets 
in  the  only  possible  places  for  streets;  the  three 
narrow  valleys  which  meet  in  the  centre  of  the  village 
afford  outlets  for  travel.  Some  two  miles  to  the  west 
one  valley  leads  to  the  Grant  River,  near  its  mouth,  and 
here  a  Mississippi  steamer  came  for  freight  occasionally. 
A  stage  came  from  Galena  down  another  valley,  and  thus 
Potosi  was  connected  with  the  outside  world.  Here  I 
drifted  in  the  spring,  and  found  good  fishing  and  shoot- 
ing. My  friend  Loeser  had  gone  a  few  miles  further 
north  to  Fennimore  Grove,  near  Lancaster,  where  he 
settled  down  into  a  farmer's  life. 

Charles  Guyon  was  one  of  the  French-Canadian  col- 
ony which  formed  the  largest  portion  of  the  village. 
There  was  a  settlement  of  Cornish  miners  in  one  of  the 
outskirts  called  British  Hollow,  but  the  two  peoples 
mixed  very  little  except  in  the  way  of  trade  and  in  the 
gambling  rooms,  which  were  then  run  wide  open. 
Charley  was  a  strong  young  fellow  about  my  age,  and 
he  proposed  that  we  should  go  jacking  for  fish  some 
night. 

"I  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  jacking,  Charley. 
I'll  go  and  try  it.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  said  he  (very  few  of  the  French- 
Canadians  spoke  anything  like  a  dialect).  "We  have  a 
jack  light  on  one  side  of  the  bow  and  it  hangs  over  the 


170  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

water,  so  that  no  fire  drops  into  the  boat.  One  man  pad- 
dles and  the  other  stands  in  the  bow,  and  when  he  sees  a 
fish  he  gigs  it." 

The  jack  was  a  cresset  made  of  strap  iron — a  twelve- 
inch  ring  to  which  half  a  dozen  strips  were  riveted  to 
form  the  bowl,  which  was  fastened  to  an  iron  staff  long 
enough  to  bring  the  bowl  above  a  man's  eyes  as  he  stood 
in  the  boat.  Charley  had  gathered  a  lot  of  bark  from 
the  shell-bark  hickory,  which  he  said  made  the  best  of  all 
lights,  and  we  got  a  ride  to  the  landing  with  our  traps. 
The  "gig"  was  a  spear  of  some  six  or  eight  prongs,  with 
a  wooden  handle  about  eight  feet  long,  to  which  a  small 
cord  was  attached  to  the  upper  end  to  recover  it  by. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark  enough  we  lighted  the  jack 
and  started.  The  boat  was  a  light-bottomed  scow  and 
I  used  the  paddle.  Guyon  stood  in  the  bow  and  gave 
orders;  he  did  not  use  nautical  terms,  but  said  "right" 
or  "left"  as  he  required  the  boat  to  go.  Soon  he  said, 
"Steady,  left,  hold  up,"  and  then  after  a  pause,  "Go  on 
slow;  there's  a  big  pike  about  here,  but  he  was  shy  and 
I  couldn't  get  a  crack  at  him.  Hold  on,  right  a  little," 
and  he  poised  his  gig  and  sent  it  buzzing  into  the  water. 
"A  clean  miss.  I  didn't  strike  low  enough.  Go  toward 
that  tree  top  up  there;  there  may  be  some  buffalo 
near  it." 

Surely  I  must  have  misunderstood ;  he  could  not  mean 
that  buffalo  might  be  grazing  in  that  tree  top,  but  I  was 
in  a  strange  land,  and  my  new  friend  might  be  having  a 
little  fun  at  my  expense,  so  I  kept  still.  Soon  the  orders 
came,  and  as  the  spear  left  his  hand  it  struck  and  gave  a 
little  tremble,  and  my  companion  yelled  out:  "I  got 
him!"  and  taking  hold  of  the  string,  which  was  tied 
to  the  gunwale,  he  pulled  the  gig  staff  to  him,  and 
then  landed  in  the  boat  a  huge  fish  of  about  twenty 


CHARLES  GUYON.  171 

pounds — huge  to  me.  "There's  your  buffalo/'  said  he. 
I  looked  at  the  great,  ungainly  fish,  with  a  hump  on 
its  back  and  a  mouth  like  a  sucker,  and  asked  if  it  was 
good  to  eat. 

"Oh,  yes;  it's  better  than  red-horse,  but  not  as  good 
as  bass  and  pike.  Here,  you  take  the  gig  and  I'll  pad- 
dle. Now  you've  got  to  put  the  gig  into  the  fish,  and  not 
in  the  place  he  looks  to  be  at.  If  he's  nearly  under  you 
throw  right  at  him,  always  with  the  gig  across  his  body 
and  not  in  line  with  him.  The  further  he  is  away  the 
more  you  must  throw  under  him,  because  he's  deeper 
than  he  looks  to  be.  You  know  how  a  board  appears  to 
be  bent  when  half  of  it  is  in  the  water;  the  lower  end 
seems  to  be  higher  than  it  is.  Well,  it's  just  so  with  a 
fish;  unless  he's  right  under  you  he's  deeper  than  he 
looks,  and  the  further  off  he  is  the  deeper  under  him  you 
must  strike." 

I  took  the  gig,  with  some  doubt  of  my  ability  to 
gauge  the  depth  of  a  fish  and  judge  his  true  position,  for 
I  knew  what  Guyon  said  was  true,  only  I  had  never 
thought  of  it  before.  I  did  think  of  his  names  of  fishes; 
we  had  a  buffalo  and  he  spoke  of  red-horse.  I  had  seen 
dogfish  and  catfish,  but  where  was  this  kind  of  nomen- 
clature to  end?  Soon  I  saw  several  large  fish.  There 
had  been  plenty  of  small  ones  seen,  but  with  a  twenty- 
pound  fish  in  the  boat  as  a  pattern  my  ideas  were  no 
doubt  enlarged.  Soon  I  said:  "Steady,  stop!"  and 
plunge  went  the  gig  and  missed. 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  touch  that  fish,"  said  Guyon; 
"you  threw  too  far  from  the  boat,  and  it  went  clean  over 
him  by  two  feet.  Next  time  aim  two  feet  below  where 
he  looks  to  be  at  and  you  may  get  him.  It's  very  seldom 
that  a  man  throws  the  gig  under  a  fish  that  lies  ten  feet 
away  from  the  boat.  Try  it  again." 


172  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

At  the  next  chance  I  was  bound  to  miss  the  fish  by 
throwing  under  it,  if  I  missed  it  at  all,  and  I  plunged  the 
gig  in  the  water  at  what  seemed  an  absurd  low  point  and 
struck  a  pike  of  some  five  pounds. 

'There/'  said  the  man  at  the  paddle,  "I  knew  you 
could  do  it  if  you  could  only  believe  the  fish  was  a  foot 
or  two  below  where  he  looked  to  be  at."  This  use  of  the 
word  "at"  was  new  to  me  then,  but  I  found  it  common 
in  the  West  and  South.  Lately  it  has  had  attention 
called  to  it  by  its  use  in  Congress.  It  sounds  odd  to 
those  who  hear  it  for  the  first  time. 

And  so  we  passed  the  first  half  of  the  night,  and  re- 
turned to  the  warehouse  and  slept  in  it,  for  Charley  had 
the  key;  but  we  took  the  precaution  to  take  our  fish  in- 
side, too,  for  he  said:  "The  moon  will  be  up  in  an  hour 
and  she'll  spoil  the  fish,  and  then  we  don't  want  minks 
and  wildcats  carryin'  'em  off  or  chewing  them  up.  We'll 
get  a  ride  up  in  the  morning,  for  Joe  Hall's  going  to 
bring  down  some  potatoes  and  there'll  be  teams  down 
with  lead." 

Morning  came  and  we  went  back  with  the  first  empty 
wagon,  taking  over  two  hundred  pounds  of  fish — bass, 
pike,  buffalo  and  big  red-finned  suckers,  which  proved 
to  be  the  "red-horse;"  and  I  had  been  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  jacking  for  fish,  handling  a  gig,  had  re- 
ceived a  lesson  in  practical  optics,  and  knew  positively 
that  a  fish  in  the  water  was  not  always  in  the  place  which 
it  appeared  to  be  uat." 

Somewhere  in  an  omnivorous  course  of  reading  I  re- 
member a  statement  that  "Man  shall  not  live  by  bread 
alone,"  and  in  the  practical  every-day  life  it  began  to  be 
painfully  evident  that  no  matter  how  desirable  it  might 
be  to  hunt  and  fish  forever,  there  were  needs  other  than 
what  the  chase  afforded.  There  was  a  man  who  really 


CHARLES  GUYON.  173 

demanded  pay  for  letting  me  live  in  his  house.  Of 
course  the  house  was  built,  and  I  did  not  hurt  it  by  living 
in  it;  but  he  had  put  a  man  out  because  he  did  not 
pay.  Then  there  came  a  day  when  a  really  serious  bit 
of  thinking  over  the  sordid  spirit  of  man  had  been  in- 
dulged in  for  fully  ten  minutes,  when  Charley  Guyon 
came  along. 

"Say/'  he  began,  "you  ain't  doin'  anything,  an'  I  want 
a  pardner  to  sink  a  shaft.  I  think  I  know  where  we  can 
make  a  strike,  anj  I've  got  all  the  tools.  What  d'ye  say, 
will  you  jine  me?" 

"Well,  Charley,  I  was  just  thinking  that  it  was  about 
time  that  I  went  at  something;  but  I  don't  know  the  first 
thing  about  lead  mining.  Tell  me  all  about  it;  how  do 
you  do  it?" 

"It's  just  like  this:  A  man  owns  a  piece  of  land,  and 
he  throws  it  open  for  mining  or  he  keeps  it  for  other  pur- 
poses. Suppose  he  throws  it  open;  then  any  one  can 
dig,  and  he  takes  one-tenth  of  the  mineral  for  rent.  A 
windlass,  rope,  bucket,  pick  and  spade  are  all  the  tools 
we  use.  Mineral  may  be  struck  at  ten  feet,  or  it  may 
be  at  sixty;  but  we  go  down  until  we  come  to  hard  pan; 
it  never  lies  below  that.  You  may  get  some  "drift"  that 
will  pay  or  may  not;  it's  all  chance.  You  may  work  a 
week  and  not  get  a  dollar,  and  you  may  strike  a  lead*; 
and  then  you  drift  in  and  follow  it.  You  see,  there  are 
lots  of  abandoned  shafts  which  were  sunk  ten  years  ago, 
when  mineral  was  worth  ten  dollars  per  thousand.  Now 
it  is  worth  thirty  dollars,  and  two  men  can  make  wages 
if  they  get  a  thousand  pounds  per  week." 

"And  a  fellow  has  to  work  down  there  under  ground 
like  a  mole  to  do  this?" 

,     *This  is  pronounced  leed  in  the  mines,  and  is  a  corruption  of  lode. 


MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 


"Yes,  but  pardners  take  turns,  one  in  the  shaft  and 
one  at  the  windlass,  and  of  a  hot  day  you'll  prefer  to  be 
below.  There's  men  here  who  hire  other  men  to  'tend 
windlass,  and  they  take  the  chances  —  make  it  all  if  they 
strike  it  big,  or  lose  their  time  and  the  man's  wages.  It's 
all  chance,  just  the  same  as  when  you  go  into  Coons' 
and  sit  in  a  keno  game;  you  may  win  or  you  may  not. 
But  all  business  is  chance  anyway,  just  like  gambling; 
the  only  man  who's  got  a  sure  thing  is  the  man  who 
works  for  wages,  and  he  gets  left  sometimes." 

Behold  the  mighty  hunter,  with  a  band  and  candle 
socket  on  his  hat,  grubbing  away  like  a  well-digger,  and 
assorting  an  occasional  lump  of  "drift,"  with  its  white 
coating,  from  the  earth  and  clay,  and  depositing  it  in  a 
"hen's  nest"  until  there  was  a  bucketful  —  always  hoping 
that  the  next  stroke  of  the  pick  would  cut  into  a  bright 
bit  of  galena;  or  at  the  windlass  waiting  for  the  word 
"up,"  and  dumping  the  earth  on  the  down-hill  side  and 
keeping  an  eye  out  for  stray  bits  which  had  escaped  the 
eyes  below.  So  passed  the  summer,  with  occasional 
fishing  trips  with  Henry  Neaville  and  his  brother  Frank, 
for  Guyon  cared  little  for  the  sportsmanlike  methods  of 
fishing;  gigging  and  netting  them  in  quantities  was  his 
delight,  yet  the  fun  of  it  was  ever  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
He  thought  fishing  with  a  hook  and  line  was  too  slow 
work;  his  mind  was  active  and  required  more  exciting 
sport. 

In  considering  what  constitutes  sport,  a  question  on 
which  the  doctors  disagree,  it  might  be  well  to  allow  a 
little  latitude  for  individual  notions;  I  was  about  to  say 
idiosyncrasies,  but  if  Guyon  read  this  he  would  ask: 
"What's  them?"  and  so  we  will  let  it  go  at  "notions." 
Please  remember  that  this  was  forty  years  ago,  and  none 
of  us  had  given  thought  to  the  possible  exhaustion  of  a 


CHARLES  GUYON.  175 

source  of  fish  supply  which  seemed  only  to  invite  the 
slayer  by  appearing  next  year  in  undiminished  numbers. 
This  is  the  only  excuse  1  have  to  offer  for  our  destruction 
of  life  in  those  days  of  its  plenty,  and  an  excuse  seems 
necessary  to-day.  If  it  is  sufficient,,  well  and  good;  it  is 
all  I  have,  and  I  throw  myself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court. 
We  all  needed  education  in  the  matter  of  fish  and  game 
preservation  in  those  days,  and  I  hope  that  I  have  atoned 
for  the  misdeeds  of  my  youth  by  both  precept  and  ex- 
ample in  later  years. 

In  sketching  Charles  Guyon,  who  was  an  honest, 
sturdy  fellow,  not  averse  to  a  fight  if  it  was  forced  upon 
him,  but  not  a  quarrelsome  man,  it  is  only  fair  to  him  to 
say  that,  having  been  reared  in  a  mining  town,  gambling 
came  as  a  natural  thing,  just  as  luck  in  mining  did,  and 
if  his  week  had  been  successful  Saturday  night  found 
him  at  the  keno  table  staking  the  last  sovereign  that  he 
had  earned.  The  smelters  sent  wagons  to  weigh  and 
gather  the  mineral  every  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  pay 
was  in  British  sovereigns,  which  passed  for  $5,  for  no 
miner  would  accept  paper  money  for  his  mineral,  al- 
though he  sometimes  did  in  exchange  for  his  gold. 

Saturday  nights  the  gambling  places  and  the  drunk- 
eries  kept  open  until  morning,  and  the  Cornish  miners 
from  British  Hollow  rested  from  their  labors  by  drink- 
ing, gambling  and  fighting.  These  were  the  highest 
forms  of  sport  known  to  them,  and  in  fact  to  the  majority 
of  men  who  work  underground  all  the  week  in  all  parts 
of  the  world.  One  night  I  dropped  into  Sam  Coons'  to 
look  on.  Here  I  want  to  say  that  I  have  never  won  or 
lost  one  dollar  in  any  form  of  gambling  except  at  the 
house  of  a  gentleman  in  Germany,  where  a  small  stake 
was  the  custom,  and  there  was  no  escape.  I  don't  claim 
any  special  credit  for  this  because  I  never  had  a  desire  to 


176  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

gamble — was  too  cowardly  to  risk  my  wealth,  if  you  wish 
to  put  it  in  that  way.  Plenty  of  good  men  gamble,  and 
I  have  other  faults,  but  am  not  one  of  those  who,  as 
Butler  ("Hudibras")  says: 

"Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to." 

I  have  occasionally  played  cards  in  a  perfunctory 
way,  without  caring  for  them,  and  have  engaged  in 
games  to  decide  who  should  pay  for  oysters,  cigars  and 
such  other  goods  as  an  army  sutler  possessed,  but  a  book 
always  suited  me  better.  Speaking  of  games  in  connec- 
tion with  Potosi  wakes  me  up.  In  the  sketch  of  General 
Martin  Miller  the  fact  was  recorded  that  Herr  Dries- 
bach,  the  great  lion  tamer,  used  to  come  to  my  father's 
house  to  play  chess,  and  to  my  great  surprise  Bill  Pat- 
terson pointed  out  a  finely-built,  powerful  man  whom 
we  had  just  passed  and  said:  "That's  Driesbach,  the  lion 
tamer."  I  hurried  after  him,  and  the  result  was  that  I 
often  went  out  to  his  farm  of  an  evening  and  had  a  game 
of  chess,  the  only  game  that  I  ever  thought  worth  the 
candle.  Chess  players  were  very  scarce  in  Potosi,  and 
Driesbach  and  I  were  out  of  practice,  but  if  I  won  one 
game  out  of  five  it  was  sufficient. 

One  evening  he  said:  "You  aren't  one-half  the  man 
your  father  was;  he  must  have  been  over  six  feet." 

"Yes;  six  feet  two  inches,  and  no  spare  meat." 

"Well,  I  remember  once  when  we  crossed  the  river 
to  Albany  in  a  small  boat,  and  a  'longshoreman  was 
smoking  a  pipe  in  the  faces  of  two  ladies  who  sat  in  the 
stern,  your  father  spoke  to  him  about  it  and  got  an 
impudent  reply,  and  he  then  jerked  the  pipe  from  the 
fellow's  mouth  and  threw  it  overboard.  Then  threats  of 
vengeance  came  when  we  should  get  on  shore.  Your 


CHARLES  GUYON.  177 

father  hurried  up,  and  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  dock  and 
waited.  Then  he  said:  'My  friend,  you  were  going  to 
lick  me  when  you  got  on  shore.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  go 
to  business  and  have  only  got  a  few  minutes  to  spare, 
and  I  would  like  you  to  do  it  now.'  The  man  looked 
him  over  and  said:  'Be  jabers,  it  isn't  worth  while  for  the 
likes  of  us  to  be  foighten'  about  an  ould  pipe.'  Now, 
Fred,  that  'longshoreman  would  have  cleaned  you  up  in 
about  two  seconds.  Why,  you  ain't  a  bit  like  the  old 
man."  I  learn  from  my  old  friend,  Hon.  J.  W.  Seaton, 
who  still  lives  in  Potosi,  that  Driesbach  died  something 
like  fifteen  years  ago,  and  the  vest  made  from  a  pet 
leopard  skin  was  given  by  Driesbach  to  Judge  Seaton, 
who  has  it  now. 

When  we  went  to  work  in  the  woods  near  the  river 
I  took  my  rifle  as  soon  as  September  I  came  around  and 
it  was  lawful  to  use  it.  This  was  the  one  that  father  gave 
me.  I  only  remember  that  the  barrel  was  half  round 
and  half  octagon,  an  unusual  departure  from  the  general 
make  of  rifles,  which  were  generally  all  octagon,  and 
were  stocked  to  the  muzzle,  although  short  stocks  were 
coming  into  fashion.  Calibre  was  a  word  little  used  in 
connection  with  hunting  rifles,  but  we  reckoned  them 
by  the  number  of  round  bullets  to  the  pound.  Squirrel 
rifles  ran  as  small  as  120  to  the  pound;  mine  was  thirty 
to  the  pound,  and  that  was  considered  very  large.  I 
never  used  any  long  bullets  in  it — "slugs"  we  called 
them — for  the  theory  was  that  they  were  only  good  in  the 
open  country,  and  that  contact  with  a  twig  would  de- 
flect them  more  than  it  would  round  bullets.  A  modern 
rifleman  would  not  know  how  to  tell  the  calibre  of  a  rifle 
by  our  measure,  and  I  can't  inform  him.  I  only  know 
that  with  such  guns,  and  many  smaller,  the  old-time 
hunters  killed  the  biggest  animals  on  the  continent,  often 


178  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

when  the  first  shot  must  disable  a  grizzly  or  a  panther, 
for  it  took  time  to  measure  powder  and  reload. 

I  had  to  go  to  the  village  for  something,  and  left  the 
rifle  loaded,  also  the  powder  horn  and  box  of  caps.  The 
bullets  and  patches  were  in  a  leather  box  in  my  belt, 
which  I  wore.  On  returning  I  heard  several  shots  some 
distance  from  our  shaft.  Guyon  and  the  rifle  were  gone. 
The  shots  kept  up,  and  I  started  at  a  lively  gait  until  I 
came  in  view  of  the  shooting  match.  There  was  Guyon 
in  among  the  branches  of  a  fallen  tree;  crack  went  the 
rifle,  and  a  big  buck  charged  into  the  branches,  but  could 
not  reach  him.  His  back  was  toward  me,  and  I  hailed: 
"Hello,  Charley!  What  are  you  doin'  to  that  deer?" 

He  turned  and  said:  "You  are  a  great  fellow  to  go 
off  with  all  the  bullets.  Got  any  with  you?  If  you  have, 
throw  me  one.  Don't  come  in  here  too  close  or  that 
deer  will  kill  you;  he's  fightin'  mad  now." 

I  did  go  in  on  a  run  and  got  into  the  tree  top  just  in 
time  to  avoid  the  charge  of  the  buck,  and  handed  Guyon 
a  bullet,  which  he  rammed  down  without  a  patch,  and 
planted  it  in  the  deer's  frontal  bone  and  dropped  him. 

Such  a  looking  deer  I  never  did  see.  Guyon's  only 
bullet  had  broken  one  antler  close  to  the  head  and 
angered  him.  The  tree  top  was  fortunately  at  hand 
and  made  a  natural  abattis,  behind  which  the  man  could 
carry  on  the  offensive  and  shift  to  avoid  the  enemy  as 
occasion  required.  But  the  deer!  His  head  was  liter- 
ally skinned  all  around  his  eyes,  and  from  his  forehead 
to  his  nose. 

Charles  said:  "When  he  came  for  me  and  I  was  safe 
in  this  treetop  I  whittled  green  plugs  for  bullets,  and 
thought  if  one  took  him  in  the  eye  it  would  drop  him. 
Every  time  a  plug  hit  him  he  would  snort,  shake  his 
head  and  come  at  me.  See  how  he  has  wet  me.  I  think 


CHARLES  GUYON.  179 

I  shot  more  than  twenty  plugs  at  him,  and  I  don't  know 
how  I  would  have  got  out  of  this  brush  if  you  hadn't 
come." 

The  story  was  too  good  to  keep.  He  didn't  hear  the 
last  of  it  for  some  time. 

Bill  Patterson  said:  "Charley,  that  venison  was  very 
good,  but  there  was  a  taste  of  wood  about  it.  How  do 
you  suppose  it  got  that  flavor?" 

Joe  Hall  hailed  him  with:  "Hey,  Charley!  That  ven- 
ison tasted  as  if  he  had  broken  into  Darcy's  shop  and  had 
eaten  his  shoe  pegs.  What  d'  ye  s'pose  he'd  been  feedin' 
on?" 

The  multitude  of  islands  between  Wisconsin  and 
Iowa  at  this  point  renders  it  difficult  to  tell  where  Grant 
River  ends  or  loses  itself  in  the  Father  of  Waters.  It  is 
several  miles  from  shore  to  shore,  and  channels  of  many 
depths  and  widths  separate  the  islands.  These  water- 
ways, the  "kills"  of  New  York  and  the  "bayous"  of  the 
lower  Mississippi,  are  here  called  sloughs,  pronounced 
sloo.  One  of  the  beauties  of  our  language  is  that  this 
word  may  be  pronounced  sluff,  slouw  or  sloo,  each  hav- 
ing a  different  meaning.  In  a  recent  letter  from  Mr. 
Seaton  he  says,  Jn  reply  to  a  question :  "The  inland  island 
waters,  most  of  which  go  dry  in  summer,  I  think,  are 
properly  called  sloughs,  and  the  name  is  not  a  provincial- 
ism peculiar  to  this  part  of  the  Mississippi  valley.  Web- 
ster gives  the  pronunciation  'slou,'  and  here  it  is  spelled 
sloo,  and  means  a  sink  or  depression  in  the  islands  in 
which  the  water  gathers  and  in  some  cases  remains  all  the 
time,  and  in  others  it  signifies  channels  or  sluiceways  in 
which  part  of  the  waters  pass  from  one  stream  to  the 
other,  i.  e.,  the  over-swollen  Mississippi  to  the  depressed 
Grant  River  and  vice  versa-,  hence  we  have  'Swift  sloo,' 
'Hay  sloo'  and  several  others  known  to  the  fishers  and 


180  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

hunters.  They  are  the  natural  habitat  and  breeding 
places  for  frogs,  reptiles  and  mosquitoes,  as  well  as  a 
great  resort  for  ducks  in  the  spring  and  fall.  During  the 
spring  freshets  the  fish  gather  in  them  in  large  quantities 
and  are  entrapped  when  the  water  falls,  which  is  usually 
in  August  and  September.  This  year  a  large  number  of 
German  carp  and  black  bass  were  taken  in  willow  woven 
nets  by  the  boys,  although  this  is  prohibited  by  law.  The 
upper  waters  of  the  Mississippi  were  stocked  a  few  years 
ago  with  these  fish  by  the  Government.  It  is  in  April 
and  May,  when  the  'spring  rise'  overflows  the  banks  and 
spreads  over  the  bottoms,  that  the  fat  catfish,  buffalo  and 
other  fishes  are  found  out  of  the  channels  and  main 
streams  feeding  in  the  grassy  bottoms.  Then  the  boys 
wade  in  and  have  their  fun  catching  them.  Sloughs  are 
creations  of  the  great  river  and  are  part  of  it." 

The  domesticated  hog  ran  wild  on  these  islands,  and 
once  a  man  said  to  me:  "Now,  you  will  want  some  pork, 
and  you  ought  to  buy  a  claim  of  hogs.  I've  got  five 
marked  sows  on  the  islands,  and  I'll  sell  you  a  claim  in 
'em  fur  a  dollar." 

On  inquiry  Charley  said:  "That's  all  right.  There's 
about  ten  claims  o'  hogs  on  the  islands.  It's  this  a-way : 
a  man  turns  out  a  sow  with  certain  ear  marks,  and  all 
the  pigs  found  with  her  in  the  fall  are  hers  if  there's  a 
hundred.  Give  him  a  dollar  and  you  can  kill  all  the  pigs 
you  want,  only  don't  kill  an  old  one  with  marks  in  its 
ears."  I  bought  in,  and  was  part  owner  of,  all  pork  on 
the  hoof  that  had  two  V's  in  the  right  ear  and  a  round 
hole  in  the  left. 

Guyon,  Bill  Patterson,  Henry  Neaville  and  I  went  for 
pork  about  the  middle  of  September.  Charley  and  Bill 
skinned  theirs,  and  this  was  the  usual  custom;  but  I  agree 
with  Neaville  that  a  properly  dressed  pig  looked  best, 


CHARLES  GUYON.  181 

but  "How  can  we  dress  them  on  these  islands?"  I  asked. 
Henry  said,  "I'll  show  you/'  and  we  pulled  the  scow  up 
high  and  dry,  filled  it  with  water,  made  a  roaring  fire  and 
heated  a  lot  of  stones  which  had  been  brought  to  the  isl- 
and for  the  purpose,  and  boiled  the  water  to  scald  the 
pigs.  How  easy  it  is  to  do  things  if  you  know  how! 
Fresh  pork  was  cheap  in  those  days,  and  I  have  seen 
where  a  hog  had  been  killed  and  only  one  ham  taken 
and  the  rest  left  in  the  woods,  perhaps  by  some  fellow 
who  never  paid  his  $i  to  "buy  into  a  claim  o'  hogs." 

Once,  while  alone  going  down  to  the  marshes  with 
my  rifle  to  get  a  duck  or  two  for  dinner,  for  it  was  the 
only  gun  I  owned,  I  went  a  little  way  up  the  side  of  the 
bluff  to  get  a  view  of  the  overflowed  lands,  and  make  a 
reconnoissance  of  the  flocks  of  ducks  and  of  such  cover 
as  might  conceal  an  approach  to  them.  I  sat  on  a  log 
to  view  the  scene  and  recover  some  lost  breath.  It  was 
early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  log  was  so  comfortable 
that  I  sat  some  time.  Four  half-grown  foxes  were  play- 
ing in  the  leaves  like  kittens,  and  a  move  would  have 
spoiled  the  show.  Suddenly  there  was  a  shot  close  by 
and  the  foxes  vanished;  a  pig  squealed,  an  old  hog 
grunted  and  a  boy  screamed.  I  jumped  at  the  shot  and 
started  slowly  to  see  who  was  shooting,  but  ran  when  I 
heard  the  boy.  There  he  was  on  his  back,  and  a  big 
sow  chewing  his  arm.  Quicker  than  I  can  tell  it  I  shot, 
and  fortunately  hit  the  hog  in  the  eye  and  she  dropped 
dead.  Then  I  became  excited  at  what  might  have  hap- 
pened if  I  had  missed  the  hog  or  killed  the  boy.  He  had 
fainted,  and,  having  no  water,  I  fanned  him  until  he  came 
to.  His  arm  was  badly  torn,  but  no  bones  were  broken, 
and  the  doctor  soon  had  him  repaired.  A  hog  will 
charge  a  man  any  time  if  he  makes  a  pig  squeal,  and  then 
they  are  dangerous  animals.  On  telling  this  pig  scrape 


182  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

to  Charley  he  showed  me  some  great  scars  on  his  legs 
where  he  was  bitten  under  similar  circumstances,  only 
that  he  seized  a  hanging  limb  and  drew  himself  into  a 
tree,  and  fortunately  some  strangers  heard  his  yell  and 
came  to  his  rescue,  or  he  would  have  bled  to  death. 

Charley  Guyon  inherited  the  taste  of  his  countrymen 
for  the  violin,  and  he  and  another  noted  fiddler  named 
Montpleasure  had  played  with  a  travelling  minstrel 
troupe  which  went  up  through  Wisconsin  and  Iowa,  and 
some  of  his  experiences  were  laughable.  Said  he:  "We 
struck  a  little  town  in  northern  Iowa  just  in  time  for  a 
late  supper  and  to  get  to  the  hall.  The  box  of  burnt 
cork  couldn't  be  found,  and  there  wasn't  corks  enough 
in  the  single  hotel  to  make  'paste'  for  the  troupe  of  ten. 
Yes,  we  had  ten,  all  good  men,  too,  if  we  did  take  in  small 
towns;  but  what  was  to  be  done?  The  hall  was  filling, 
and  we  had  small  boys  out  looking  for  corks  and  coming 
back  saying,  'Mother  says  she  ain't  got  no  corks/  or 
Tap  says  he'll  get  you  a  cork  ef  you'll  give  him  six 
tickets/  The  hall  was  full  and  the  people  began  to  get 
uneasy,  when  in  came  the  landlord  to  the  dressing-room 
with  four  boxes  of  shoeblacking  and  asked  if  that 
wouldn't  do.  Charley  French  thought  it  would,  and  we 
wet  it  up,  and  used  it  and  rushed  on  the  stage.  The 
overture  went  off  well,  and  the  opening  chorus  was  half 
way  through  when  the  boys  began  to  feel  uncomfortable. 
The  stuff  had  stiffened  and  we  felt  as  if  we  were  var- 
nished, and  soon  it  began  to  peel  off.  Such  looking  nig- 
gers you  never  did  see.  We  got  laughing  and  the  audi- 
ence roared;  our  tenor  tried  to  sing  'Swanee  River/  but 
it  was  uphill  work;  he  looked  like  a  darkey  with  the 
smallpox;  we  shook  our  sides,  and  the  people  screamed 
until  he  got  mad  and  left  the  stage.  It  was  well  for  us 
that  it  hit  the  audience  as  being  funny,  but  we  got 


CHARLES  GUYON.  183 

through  somehow,  and  as  they  wanted  to  dance  we 
played  for  them  until  morning,  after  we  washed  up. 
They  had  never  had  such  dance  music,  and  they  wanted 
us  to  promise  to  come  again,  which  we  did,  and  had  a 
grand  reception." 

Once  when  we  were  discussing  the  chances  of  sinking 
a  shaft  in  a  new  place  he  burst  out  laughing.  I  waited 
to  hear  what  the  cause  of  this  hilarity  was,  and  as  soon 
as  he  could  pull  himself  together  he  tried  to  say,  between 
shrieks:  "Bones  asked  why  this  troupe  of  minstrels  was 
like  a  gang  of  burglars  which  had  been  discovered.  Ha, 
ha!  ho,  ho! — Oh,  I  can't  tell  it.  But  the  answer  was 
because  we — he,  he!  Oh,  my! — because — because  we're 
spotted!"  And  then  he  couldn't  stop.  A  roll  on  the 
ground  and  a  kicking  of  heels  was  the  only  sedative,  and 
it  always  got  in  its  quieting  work  if  no  one  started  a 
laugh ;  if  they  did  it  took  longer. 

I  think  Charley  never  tired  of  this  yarn,  for  he  would 
laugh  all  the  time  until  he  cried;  it  was  the  great  event 
in  his  uneventful  life. 

He  was  as  happy  as  that  happy  race,  the  French- 
Canadian,  usually  is — happy  if  it  rained  or  if  the  day  was 
bright ;  happy  in  luck  of  any  kind,  if  he  had  strings  for  his 
fiddle  and  rheumatism  and  the  toothache  kept  away.  In 
my  sketch  in  Forest  and  Stream  I  presumed  that  he  was 
dead.  Judge  Seaton  has  written  me  that  Charley  is  still 
fiddling  away  in  Highland,  Iowa  County,  Wis.,  "happy 
as  ever  and  vigorous."  As  this  goes  to  the  printer  I  am 
waiting  for  an  answer  from  my  old-time,  honest  and 
cheerful  companion  in  the  lead  mines. 


CORPORAL    HENRY   R.  NEAVILLE. 


SIPPI. 

HENRY  had  the  taste  for  observing  the  habits  of 
beasts,  birds  and  fishes  which  leads  a  man  to 
study  them,  a  taste  which  may,  if  not  checked, 
cause  him  to  count  the  fin-rays  of  a  fish  or  the  scales  on 
the  tarsus  of  a  bird,  and  then  inflict  his  fellow  man  with 
a  monograph  on  fin-rays  and  scales.  Henry  never 
reached  that  stage,  but  loved  the  woods  and  waters  just 
the  same,  and  was  a  very  quiet,  companionable  fellow  of 
my  own  age.  His  father  kept  the  only  hotel  in  Potosi 
at  that  time,  and  Henry  and  his  younger  brother  Frank 
were  kept  by  the  hotel.  Few  things  troubled  Henry; 
with  him  it  was  "always  afternoon/'  and  pleasant  visions 
floated  in  his  mind;  yet  he  was  not  indifferent  to  the 
passage  of  time  if  aroused  by  something  which  interested 
him.  In  still-hunting  deer  he  was  tireless,  and  no 
amount  of  fatigue  dulled  his  ardor.  If,  however,  wood 
was  to  be  cut  for  the  house,  Henry  somehow  never  took 
an  absorbing  interest  in  it,  and  it  soon  turned  out  that 
Henry  and  I  had  many  traits  in  common. 

We  fished  for  crappies,  another  fish  new  to  me,  and 
one  which  I  considered  the  best  pan  fish  in  the  Missis- 
sippi. This  is  the  fish,  or  brother  of  the  one,  called 
"strawberry  bass"  in  western  New  York,  and  if  my 
youthful  judgment  was  correct  it  is  a  fish  worthy  of  more 
attention  from  fish-culturists  than  it  gets.  There  is  a 
chance  that  my  more  mature  palate  would  confirm  the 
verdict  of  forty  years  ago,  for  I  never  did  care  to  eat  a 

184 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  185 

black  bass  if  perch  could  be  had,  and  residence  by  salt 
water  has  intensified  this  preference.  My  friend,  Pro- 
fessor Jordan,  says  the  crappie  should  be  called  Pomoxys, 
and  in  his  "Manual  of  Vertebrates"  gives  what  he  thinks 
the  word  means  in  Greek;  but  I  guess  the  name  comes 
from  the  Latin  Pomum,  fruit,  for  the  crappie  is,  in  the 
argot  of  the  day,  "a  peach;"  a  few  years  ago  it  would 
have  been  "a  daisy,"  and  so  in  the  process  of  evolution 
the  fruit  succeeds  the  flower.  Darwin,  "thou  reasonest 
well!" 

A  tree  top  was  a  favorite  place  to  find  the  crappie  and 
incidentally  to  lose  fish-hooks.  We  used  short  rods,  cut 
in  the  woods,  but  not  over  seven  feet  long,  for  fishing 
in  the  tree  tops,  and  the  crappies  were  flat  as  a  pancake 
and  sometimes  a  foot  long.  In  a  tree  top  if  one  of  them 
was  allowed  a  bit  of  line  the  angler  was  lucky  if  he  saved 
the  hook.  They  fought  fairly  well,  too;  of  course,  not 
to  be  compared  to  the  fight  of  a  black  bass  nor  of  some 
perch,  but  it  was  sport  to  take  them.  We  strung  the 
fish  through  the  gills,  and  hung  them  in  the  water  to 
keep  alive.  Once  while  pulling  in  my  string  to  add 
another  it  pulled  heavily,  and  a  catfish,  which  looked 
to  weigh  ten  pounds,  came  to  the  surface.  It  had 
swallowed  one  crappie,  but  let  go  when  it  saw  us.  Soon 
after  this  Henry  put  his  hand  in  the  water,  and  a  big  cat- 
fish seized  it  and  tore  the  skin  badly,  causing  him  to 
make  remarks  calculated  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  all  cat- 
fish which  heard  them. 

As  my  mining  partner,  Charley  Guyon,  never  ob- 
jected to  having  a  holiday,  it  happened  that  Henry  and  I 
fished  frequently  in  the  summer,  and  hunted  for  ducks, 
deer  and  other  game  in  spring  and  fall.  Shortly  after 
Guyon's  adventure  with  the  buck  Henry  and  I  were  fol- 
lowing deer  up  the  Grant  River,  and  I  saw  three  of  them 


186  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

cross  to  my  side  within  easy  shot.  There  was  a  buck  and 
two  does.  As  they  came  out  of  the  water  I  dropped  the 
buck,  and  like  an  echo  of  my  shot  one  of  the  does  fell. 
Henry  took  off  his  clothes,  and  swam  over  and  found  me 
talking  with  a  man  about  fifty  years  old,  who  had  killed 
the  doe.  He  proved  to  be  a  French-Canadian  named 
Antoine  Gardapee,  with  whom  I  struck  up  a  friendship 
which  will  be  related  "in  our  next."  He  was  a  trapper, 
and  like  my  old  friend,  Port  Tyler,  was  a  "character." 
We  dressed  our  deer,  and  Henry  and  I  swam  the  river 
with  it  and  took  turns  with  the  heavy  saddle  wrapped  in 
the  skin  and  the  lighter  forequarters. 

Gardapee  came  to  town  with  us  and  sold  his  veni- 
son. In  those  days  many  men  threw  away  the  fore- 
quarters  of  a  deer.  I  asked  Antoine  to  come  to  my 
house  for  dinner  and  he  did,  but  he  insisted  that  a  rib 
chop  out  of  a  fat  deer  was  the  best  portion,  and  we  had 
them  broiled.  He  was  right,  and  to-day  I  follow  his  ad- 
vice when  venison  is  in  season  and  buy  rib  chops.  He 
took  a  fancy  to  me  because  our  tastes  were  in  common 
and  I  had  education  enough  to  write  his  letters  to  his 
friends,  and  would  talk  to  him  on  subjects  in  which  he 
was  interested.  I  looked  up  to  him  as  a  combined  Port 
Tyler  and  Natty  Bumpo  rolled  into  one.  It  was  a  sort 
of  love  at  first  sight,  or  like  that  of  Desdemona  for 
Othello,  of  which  he  says: 

"She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd; 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them." 

Henry  had  that  sense  of  humor  which  often  accom- 
panies a  poetic  temperament  and  permits  one  to  both 
enjoy  a  sentiment  and  to  burlesque  it  at  the  same  time. 
This  is  a  possibility  unknown  to  solemn  souls  who  think 
burlesque  or  travesty  irreverent  or  disrespectful,  which 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAV1LLE.  187 

it  is  not  always  intended  to  be.  Byron  had  this  faculty 
in  perfection,  and  lets  you  down  from  a  poetic  flight  with 
a  d.  s.  thud.  Shakespeare  turns  from  heroic  Hotspur 
to  fat  Jack  Falstaff — and  Henry  Neaville,  who  had  a 
considerable  knowledge  of  Shakespeare,  often  para- 
phrased him.  This  is  what  called  up  the  above  quota- 
tion. Henry  once  said : 

"She  lov'd  me  for  the  fishes  that  I  caught, 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pickle  them.'' 

Frank  Neaville,  Henry  and  I  one  summer  day  went 
fishing,  and  we  rowed  up  against  the  current  of  Swift 
Sloo  and  around  into  more  quiet  waters,  made  fast  to  a 
tree  top  and  dropped  our  lines.  Tree  tops  in  these 
waters  were  abundant  where  the  freshets  had  washed  the 
soil  from  the  roots,  and  the  tree  toppled  into  the  water, 
usually  kept  on  growing,  or  at  least  in  full  leaf  during 
the  season,  and  afforded  a  good  place  to  tie  a  boat  and 
fish  either  among  the  branches  or  further  out.  A  queer 
tapping  noise  came  from  the  boat's  bottom.  I  suspected 
Frank  of  making  it,  because  he  was  full  of  tricks  of  that 
kind,  but  it  kept  up  and  he  did  not  seem  to  be  the 
cause.  "Are  there  spirits  among  us  seeking  communi- 
cation with  mortals?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry,  "and  I'll  try  to  call  that  particular 
spirit  from  the  vasty  deep,  and  find  out  why  he  knocks 
on  our  boat." 

"He  wants  to  come  in,"  Frank  explained,  "and  he's 
too  polite  to  do  it  without  knocking  first." 

Henry  put  on  a  plump  worm,  took  the  little  bullet 
which  served  for  a  sinker  and  let  his  line  drift  under  the 
boat.  In  a  short  time  it  was  evident  that  something  was 
tugging  at  his  line,  and  his  little  rod  bent  as  the  spirit,  or 
whatever  it  was,  struggled  to  get  loose.  Soon  a  large 


188  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

fish  was  pulled  from  under  the  boat,  and  made  several 
kicks  and  splashes  before  it  was  flopping  at  our  feet, 
showering  water  and  scales.  It  was  a  "red-horse,"  and 
would  weigh  about  two  pounds,  guess-weight. 

"Is  that  the  cause  of  the  spirit-like  raps  on  our  boat?" 

"Yes;  he  was  sucking  off  snails  and  water  worms. 
Did  you  never  see  'em  do  it?" 

"No;  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  before." 

"Here's  another  at  it  now;  come  over  this  side  and 
you  can  see  it.  Come  still,  and  don't  rock  the  boat  or 
you'll  scare  it." 

I  went  and  saw  about  half  of  the  fish  extending 
beyond  the  boat.  It  was  on  its  back,  and  its  red  fins 
looked  bright  against  its  white  belly  and  straw-colored 
sides.  At  every  tap  on  the  boat  a  slight  contraction  of 
the  body  was  observed  as  he  sucked  his  food  from  the 
boards.  Frank  thought  he  could  capture  the  fish  with 
his  hands  and  tried  it,  but  had  to  fish  his  hat  from  the 
water  instead.  "Golly,"  said  he,  "that  fish  was  quick. 
He  jumped  when  I  touched  him,  and  slipped  through  my 
hand  like  an  eel."  After  this  the  drumming  of  the  red- 
horse  was  often  heard,  not  only  on  the  boat,  but  upon 
logs  that  were  several  feet  from  us.  This  sucker  is  the 
"mullet"  or  "red  mullet"  of  western  New  York.  It  is 
eatable  in  cold  weather  if  it  is  the  best  you  can  get. 

Henry  threw  the  fish  overboard,  saying:  "Might  as 
well  let  it  go;  we  never  eat  'em  in  summer.  I  only 
hookeM  it  for  fun  and  to  show  you  what  made  the  tap- 
pings on  the  boat.  Don't  you  have  red-horse  where 
you've  fished?  There!  Look  over  on  the  bank  of  the 
sloo.  Keep  still,  Frank;  sh!" 

A  queer-looking  object  was  rolling  about  on  the 
shore  in  a  singular  manner.  It  grew  large  and  then 
small.  Sometimes  it  was  the  size  of  a  small  cat,  and  then 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  189 

would  increase  until  as  big  as  an  old  Thomas.  It 
twisted,  rolled  sideways  and  back  until  it  reached  the 
water,  where  it  kicked  up  a  great  bobbery. 

"I'm  durned  if  I  know  what  that  is,"  said  Henry;  "I 
never  saw  such  an  animal  before.  What  do  you  think 
it  is?" 

"It's  a  'coon  rolling  in  the  dirt  and  then  washing  him- 
self off,"  said  Frank. 

Henry  sneeringly  replied:  "'Coon!  yer  granny!  A 
'coon's  got  a  big,  bushy  tail  and  is  gray.  Frank,  you 
don't  know  a  'coon  from  Driesbach's  pet  leopard." 

By  this  time  the  splashing  ceased,  and  one  animal 
crawled  out  of  the  sloo  dragging  another.  Henry  and  I 
said  in  chorus:  "It's  a  mink!"  So  it  was,  but  he  had  a 
muskrat  with  him,  and  musky  was  dead.  Our  exclama- 
tion startled  the  mink,  and  it  jumped  into  the  grass  with 
its  prey.  I  said  to  Henry:  "That  sight  is  worth  more 
than  all  the  fish  we  have  caught  and  all  the  mineral 
Charley  Guyon  and  I  might  have  dug  to-day,  or  for  a 
week.  I  knew  that  mink  were  fond  of  muskrat  meat, 
but  a  fellow  might  fish  for  a  lifetime  and  never  see  a 
mink  kill  one." 

"What  made  the  mink  hurry  off  so?"  asked  Frank; 
"he  wasn't  in  any  hurry  about  killing  the  muskrat.  I'd 
like  to  have  seen  him  eat  it." 

"Frank,"  said  Henry,  "that  mink  had  several  good 
reasons  for  hurrying  off.  It  was  dinner  time,  and  Mrs. 
Mink  and  all  the  little  minks  were  wondering  why  papa 
didn't  come  home  from  market  with  the  dinner.  Then 
Mr.  Mink  may  have  thought  his  family  might  mistrust 
that  he  was  lingering  at  Sam  Coons'  bar,  and  would  for- 
get to  bring  the  dinner  at  all;  but  the  chances  are  that 
when  we  spoke  he  looked  over  at  us  and  thought:  'It's 
best  to  hurry  home  before  that  durned  fool,  Frank  Nea- 


190  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

ville,  asks  me  a  whole  mess  of  questions/  That's  the 
reason  he  went  off  so  suddenly.  Frank,  he  took  one 
look  at  you,  and  saw  your  mouth  wide  open,  ready  to  ask 
him  a  question,  and  he  sneaked." 

Frank  looked  at  me  and  said:  "Henry  knows  a  heap 
o'  things,  but  somehow  nobody  seems  to  realize  it  but 
himself.  He  knows  just  why  that  mink  hurried  off  as 
well  as  I  do,  but  he  won't  tell  the  truth.  Now,  I'll  tell 
you  why  he  skipped  out.  The  mink  was  so  interested 
in  his  fight  that  he  did  not  notice  us  until  Henry  called 
out.  Then  he  looked  over  here  and  said  to  himself: 
'There's  that  mean  Henry  Neaville,  and  he'll  take  my 
musquash  if  I  don't  get  out.  That  fellow  is  mean 
enough  to  take  acorns  from  a  blind  sow/  And  so  that 
mink,  which  would  have  been  delighted  to  have  eaten  his 
dinner  in  decent  company,  sneaked  off  with  it  into  the 
woods  for  fear  he  would  be  robbed." 

I  had  taken  my  rifle  along  because  the  boys  thought 
it  would  be  well  to  kill  a  pig  on  our  return,  and,  as  I 
had  "bought  into  a  claim  o'  hogs,"  we  went  ashore,  and 
after  some  work  among  these  very  wild  animals  I  got  a 
shot  and  dropped  a  "likely  shoat"  that  would  dress  about 
sixty  pounds.  After  skinning  the  pig  we  laid  it  across 
the  bow,  and  rowed  around  into  Swift  Sloo  about  sun- 
down. The  strong  current  was  taking  us  along  toward 
home,  when  Frank  saw  a  wounded  pelican  near  the 
shore,  and  grabbed  a  tree  top  to  hold  the  boat.  Quicker 
than  it  can  be  told  the  sudden  check  in  the  swift  current 
filled  the  boat,  and  it  left  us  in  the  water.  Henry  was 
in  the  stern  steering  with  one  oar,  and  fortunately 
grabbed  the  painter  and  held  on.  Frank  and  I  got  out 
from  the  tree  top  and  struck  for  the  nearest  shore.  A 
bend  hid  the  boat  and  Henry  from  sight  by  the  time  we 
landed,  and  then  Frank  began  to  cry:  "Henry  is 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  191 

drowned;  I  know  he  is,  and  all  on  account  of  my  fool- 
ishness!" 

I  consoled  him  as  well  as  possible  by  saying  that  his 
brother  was  a  good  swimmer  and  must  be  on  land  below 
the  bend,  and  then  we  heard  his  yell:  "Yee-e-e  hoo-ooo," 
and  answered  it.  We  went  down  to  him,  and  found  that 
the  boat  and  one  oar  was  all  there  was  left,  except  the 
three  strings  of  fish  which  were  tied  to  the  gunwale. 

"Well,  we  might  as  well  go  on  home,"  said  Frank. 

I  thought  a  moment  and  said:  "You  boys  can  go  if 
you  like,  but  my  rifle  is  in  the  sloo  near  the  tree  top,  and 
I'm  goin'  to  stay  on  this  island  and  try  to  get  it  when 
morning  comes." 

The  boys  decided  to  remain  after  I  produced  a  little 
bottle  of  matches — a  trick  learned  from  my  old  precep- 
tor, Port  Tyler.  Said  Port:  "You  don't  never  want  to 
go  a-shootin'  nur  a-fishin'  with  yer  matches  loose  in  yer 
pocket,  nur  in  one  o'  them  metal  match  boxes ;  they  leak, 
an'  if  ye  get  caught  in  a  rain  or  tumble  in  the  crick  yer 
matches  are  all  wet  when  ye  want  'em  most."  The  les- 
son had  been  firmly  implanted  by  a  neglect  to  follow  it 
on  one  occasion,  and  here  was  proof  of  the  wisdom  of  the 
old  woodsman.  At  such  a  time,  when  wet,  cold  and 
hungry,  one  good  match  was  worth  a  king's  ransom,  and 
I  had  it.  Dead  wood  was  plenty,  and  the  little  breeze 
which  kept  the  mosquitoes  from  the  open  sloo  was  not 
felt  in  the  underbrush.  Before  the  fire  we  stripped  and 
spread  our  clothing  on  poles  cut  for  the  purpose,  and 
then — there  is  a  dim  remembrance  of  three  fellows  try- 
ing to  keep  their  bodies  in  the  smoke  and  their  eyes  out 
of  it. 

This  was  a  mosquito  paradise — for  them.  For  us 
the  term  might  be  reversed,  and  it  would  require  the  pen 
of  Dante  to  describe  the  place.  Still,  most  readers  of 


192  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Forest  and  Stream  have  sat  in  smudges,  and  have  won- 
dered whether  it  were  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer  the 
stings  and  poisons  of  tormenting  'skeeters  or  by  smudg- 
ing end  them.  "Smoke  follows  beauty/'  is  the  adage; 
but  when  sitting  in  a  smudge  of  dry  fungus  we  old  cam- 
paigners know  that  we  are  not  beautiful  because  the 
smoke  dodges  us.  Sometimes  it  is  a  question  whether 
the  insects  are  not  to  be  preferred  to  smarting  eyes,  but 
eventually  the  ayes  have  it,  and  more  smudge  is  made. 

Our  lunch  was  saved,  and  there  was  plenty  of  it — but 
the  bread  was  soaked  too  much  to  use,  the  pies  which 
Mrs.  Neaville  had  put  in  the  basket  had  disintegrated, 
and  the  ham  and  chicken  had  been  eaten.  We  slapped 
mosquitoes  and  roasted  fish  and  shifted  to  keep  in  the 
smoke.  When  the  fish  were  cooked  we  ate  supper. 

" Where's  the  salt?"  asked  Frank. 

Henry  looked  up  and  quietly  said:  "Frank,  look  in 
the  basket;  you'll  find  the  salt  tied  up  in  a  rag;  bring  us 
some;"  and  he  never  cracked  a  smile  while  his  brother 
held  up  the  soaked  rag,  looked  at  it  and  threw  it  down. 
"I  never  like  salt  on  fish,"  said  Henry;  "it  makes  me 
think  they're  not  fresh."  Frank  and  I  ate  fresh  fish  and 
made  no  comment.  After  dinner  Henry  took  his  felt 
hat,  and  went  to  the  sloo  and  brought  it  up  full  of  water. 
Said  he:  "I  always  want  a  drink  after  a  fish  dinner,  and 
of  all  drinks  in  this  world  there's  nothing  like  Mississippi 
River  water;  it's  rich — food  and  drink,  too — and  there's 
no  better  place  to  get  it  than  from  Swift  Sloo.  Boys, 
here's  fun!" 

It  was  desirable  to  get  our  clothes  on  at  the  earliest 
moment,  so  that  there  would  be  a  minimum  of  cuticle 
exposed  to  the  enemy,  and  after  dressing  we  could  dry 
the  garments  from  the  inside  as  well  as  by  the  fire;  so  we 
dressed  and  dragged  the  boat  ashore,  turned  it  over  and 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  193 

slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  under  it,  leaving  the  hordes  of 
mosquitoes  to  sing  us  a  lullaby  on  the  outside,  while  only 
a  few  of  them  found  entrance  from  the  ground. 

Frank  said:  "I've  had  enough  of  this,  and  I'm  going 
to  get  up!"  And  it  was  morning — broad  daylight.  The 
dawn  had  been  obscured  by  the  heavy  timber  and  the 
overturned  boat.  A  breakfast  which  somehow  was  much 
like  the  supper,  in  the  presence  of  fresh  fish  and  the 
absence  of  salt  and  everything  else,  was  satisfactory  to  all 
but  Frank.  He  said:  "If  I  only  had  a  cup  of  coffee  I 
wouldn't  care." 

"Frank,"  I  replied,  "you  are  not  an  epicure.  There 
is  no  more  delicious  breakfast  known  than  roasted  crap- 
pie  cooked  without  salt  and  washed  down  with  water 
from  Swift  Sloo.  Your  palate  is  not  educated;  coffee 
just  now — hot  coffee,  I  mean — would  spoil  the  combina- 
tion; you  don't  want  coffee,  nor  anything  else." 

"Coffee!"  exclaimed  Henry,  "why,  coffee  would  spoil 
the  taste  of  those  delicate  crappies,  which  all  epicures  eat 
without  salt."  And  then  he  added:  "Coffee  would  queer 
the  whole  show,"  a  remark  which  made  me  ask  if  he  had 
gone  off  with  Charley  Guyon,  Montpleasure  and  the 
others  on  their  trip  into  Iowa,  and  he  admitted  that  he 
had  been  the  treasurer  of  the  troupe.  How  little  things 
serve  to  show  what  will  "queer"  a  larger  thing!  I  asked: 
"Henry,  what  was  it  that  'queered'  our  trip?"  And  he 
simply  answered:  "Frank." 

Don't  think  that  Frank  was  any  sort  of  a  "hoodoo" 
because  we  guyed  him  in  this  way.  He  was  a  good, 
honest  boy,  but  had  no  taste  for  camp  life — hunting,  fish- 
ing and  mosquitoes.  He  afforded  plenty  of  sport  to  his 
brother  and  I  because  he  was  green  at  these  things.  He 
wanted  to  know  what  there  was  interesting  in  seeing  a 
mink  kill  a  muskrat. 


194  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Henry  replied:  "Why,  you  bloomin'  idiot,  you  might 
live  in  the  woods  for  fifty  years  and  never  see  such  a 
thing  but  once." 

"Well/'  drawled  Frank,  "after  you've  seen  it  what 
does  it  amount  to?  You  knew  that  mink  killed  musk- 
rats,  and  what  more  is  there  to  it?" 

Henry  was  dazed  at  this  practical  question,  and  no 
one  replied  to  Frank.  What  could  you  say?  If  a  man 
has  no  liking  for  a  thing,  what  can  be  said  to  prove  that 
he  ought  to  like  it?  We  could  only  feel  sorry  for  a  fel- 
low who  had  no  care  to  observe  animals  in  a  state  of 
nature  when  they  were  unaware  of  the  presence  of  man. 
If  a  man  doesn't  care  for  literature,  science  or  art,  there's 
no  use  talking  to  him  about  them.  This  may  be  illus- 
trated by  the  following  story:  Two  fellows  had  journeyed 
from  New  York  to  see  Niagara  Falls,  of  which  they  had 
heard  much.  As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  mighty  cat- 
aract one  said:  "There,  Jim!  them's  the  falls!"  The 
other  asked:  "Is  them  the  falls?"  and  added:  "Them's 
nice  falls;  now  let's  go  and  get  some  beer."  That,  I 
think,  puts  the  case  fairly — perhaps  as  strongly  as  that  of 
"casting  pearls  before  swine,"  but  not  in  such  an  offen- 
sive manner.  If  Henry  Neaville  was  alive  to-day  he 
would  spend  a  week  to  see  that  solitary  animal — a  mink 
— capture  and  kill  his  prey  in  the  manner  one  did  when 
we  were  fishing  near  Swift  Sloo.  Frank  had  no  interest 
in  such  things. 

We  cut  a  stiff  pole,  and  with  our  remaining  oar  poled 
and  paddled  back  to  the  tree  top  where  Frank  capsized 
the  boat  in  order  to  look  at  the  wounded  pelican.  After 
a  survey  of  the  bottom  we  found  the  spot  where  the  rifle 
lay,  and  I  undressed  and  brought  it  up  at  the  first  dive, 
for  the  water  was  not  more  than  six  feet  deep;  there  was 
no  mud  to  cover  the  gun  in  the  swift  water,  and  it  lay 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  195 

within  three  feet  of  where  the  boat  upset.  We  then  saw 
where  a  board  had  lodged  in  the  last  freshet,  and  as  our 
loose  seats  were  gone  I  proposed  to  replace  them  with 
the  board. 

"But  you  have  no  saw.  How  are  you  going  to  cut 
that  board  to  make  two  seats?"  asked  Frank. 

I  showed  him  how  to  cut  a  board  off  square  with  a 
pocket  knife  by  taking  the  measure  and  following  the 
mark  with  the  point  of  the  knife.  Then  slightly  bending 
the  board  at  the  mark  and  drawing  the  knife  in  the  cut, 
taking  care  not  to  bend  it  too  much,  the  fibres  separated 
with  a  snap  under  the  point  of  the  knife,  and  we  had  two 
seats  with  ends  as  square  as  if  sawed.  It  was  done  so 
quickly  that  he  was  surprised,  and  I  showed  him  how  a 
small  tree  could  be  cut  by  a  sharp-pointed  knife  if  the 
tree  could  be  bent  so  as  to  strain  the  fibres,  and  he  very 
ungrammatically  remarked:  "Well.,  I'm  be  blowed!" 

Henry  Neaville  was  one  of  those  rare  fellows  who  are 
charming  companions  in  camp — one  of  those  cheerful 
men  who  never  grumble,  no  matter  what  happens.  It 
might  rain,  and  wet  him  to  the  skin  when  there  was  no 
chance  to  make  a  fire;  he  might  lose  his  fishing  tackle 
when  no  more  could  be  had,  and  he  would  joke  about  it. 
He  would  be  happy  when  it  was  a  choice  between  being 
eaten  alive  by  mosquitoes  or  being  smothered  and 
blinded  by  smoke.  Mark  Tapley  could  not  have  been 
jollier  under  adverse  circumstances  than  was  Henry 
Neaville.  I  was  with  him  a  year  and  a  half  later  in  camp 
in  northern  Minnesota  with  a  surveying  party,  and  saw 
him  come  in  with  both  feet  frozen  so  badly  that  I  feared 
amputation  might  be  necessary,  and  as  I  dressed  his  feet 
afterward,  when  they  were  swollen  almost  to  bursting, 
he  said:  "If  you  should  have  to  cut  these  feet  off  just  box 
'em  up,  and  send  'em  back  to  Potosi  and  write  father  to 


196  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

tell  the  girls  that  I'm  not  dancing  this  winter."  That  I 
loved  such  a  cheerful  companion  is  not  strange;  any 
sportsman  would  have  taken  him  to  his  heart,  for  if  there 
is  a  disagreeable  quality  in  a  man  it  will  show  itself  in 
camp.  If  he  is  cranky,  cross  or  grumbly  it  will  come  out 
in  time,  and  if  he  is  a  hog  who  will  take  the  choice  corner 
of  the  tent  every  time,  or  the  best  fish  in  pan,  it  is  soon 
known,  and  right  here  let  me  say  I  have  met  many  such 
men  who  seemed  to  think  that  no  one  was  wet  and  cold 
but  themselves,  nobody  tired  and  hungry  except  their 
own  carcasses;  one  trip  with  them  is  always  enough. 
They  are  the  fellows  who  will  shoot  across  you  at  your 
birds,  throw  out  their  lines  alongside  yours  if  they  see 
you  have  a  nibble,  and  in  many  ways,  beside  bragging  of 
their  personal  prowess,  make  themselves  disagreeable. 
You've  all  met  "em  and  dropped  'em.  I  will  tell  you 
more  about  Henry  later. 

We  drifted  down  Swift  Sloo,and  poled  and  paddled  to 
the  landing,  made  the  boat  fast,  and  marched  through  the 
partly  deserted  villages  of  Lafayette  and  Van  Buren 
to  picturesque  Potosi.  Mr.  Kaltenbach,  who  had  been 
postmaster  for  some  twenty  years  then  and  who  recently 
died  in  office,  the  oldest  postmaster  known  to  the  ser- 
vice, hailed  us  with:  "Hello,  boys!  Did  you  get  so 
many  fish  that  you  couldn't  carry  'em?"  But  Henry 
told  him  that  several  wagons  were  on  the  way  with  our 
catch.  John  Nicholas  and  Bill  Patterson  wanted  to 
know  if  we  forgot  to  spit  on  our  bait,  but  they  got  no' 
reply.  We  had  enjoyed  the  trip — that  is,  Henry  and  I 
did — it  was  not  certain  about  Frank,  and  it  was  useless 
to  try  to  explain  it  to  people  who  measure  your  fun  by 
the  amount  of  game  brought  back — a  most  false  meas- 
ure, and  one  that  should  come  under  the  supervision  of 
the  State  "sealer  of  weights  and  measures." 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  197 

In  the  fall  Pete  Loeser,  who,  you  will  remember,  came 
from  Albany  with  me,  sent  an  invitation  to  go  up  some 
fifteen  miles  to  Fenimore  Grove  and  shoot  prairie 
chickens.  Henry  went  along,  and  was  enthusiastic 
about  the  sport,  which  could  not  be  had  in  the  heavily 
timbered  district  near  Potosi.  We  met  Pete  and  he  said: 
"The  tay  vos  yust  ride,  und  dere  was  t'ousands  of  bra'rie 
shickens  in  de  wheat  stubble  und  de  cornfields."  We 
were  elated. 

We  had  no  dog,  but  we  spread  out  at  proper  distances 
to  take  in  cross  shots  without  interference,  and  walked 
the  birds  up.  The  ease  with  which  they  were  dropped 
surprised  me  after  being  wrought  up  by  Henry's  ex- 
travagant talk.  On  our  return  with  big  bags  of  this  fine 
bird,  Henry  asked  what  I  thought  of  the  sport,  and  I 
summed  it  up  in  about  this  style:  "Henry,  the  prairie 
chicken  is  a  fine  large  bird  and  a  good  game  bird,  but  as 
a  bird  to  shoot  it  is  easier  than  the  little  quail;  it  flies  in 
the  open,  and  in  such  a  way  that  a  duffer  could  hardly 
miss  it  if  within  range.  It  doesn't  compare  with  wood- 
cock shooting  in  a  thicket  as  a  test  of  skill,  and  as  for 
partridge,  I  tell  you  that  there  is  a  feeling  of  triumph  in 
downing  a  wary  old  bird,  which  starts  like  a  rocket  and 
puts  a  tree  between  you  and  himself  before  he  has  gone 
ten  feet,  if  the  tree  is  there,  that  the  killing  of  one  hun- 
dred prairie  chickens  cannot  equal.  Come  with  me 
some  day  and  try  them  back  of  the  river  bluffs  toward 
Cassville,  and  if  you  don't  agree  with  me  when  we  return 
I'll  eat  my  hat." 

Since  that  day  I  have  shot  prairie  chickens  in  Kansas 
and  in  other  States,  and  still  adhere  to  my  opinion  con- 
cerning the  merits  of  the  two  birds  from  the  standpoint 
of  a  sportsman  whose  object  is  to  bag  a  difficult  bird 
regardless  of  whether  he  gets  two  or  twenty.  For  the 


198  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

table  I  prefer  the  dark-meated  prairie  fowl,  but  that  is 
another  question.  Also  I  would  say  that  up  to  that  time 
I  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of  the  practice  of  treeing 
partridges  with  a  dog.  It  is  only  in  sparsely  settled  dis- 
tricts where  this  can  be  done,  and  it  was  many  years  after 
that  I  had  practical  knowledge  of  this  method  of  shoot- 
ing. About  the  thickly  settled  districts  of  New  York, 
where  I  learned  to  shoot,  the  ruffed  grouse  would  never 
take  to  a  tree  for  a  yelping  spaniel;  they  crouched  for  a 
spring  at  the  approach  of  a  man  or  dog,  and  often  the 
thunder  of  their  wings  was  the  first  intimation  the  gun- 
ner had  of  their  presence,  and  he  was  lucky  if  he  could 
flesh  his  shot  before  the  swift  bird  had  put  a  tree  between 
them.  It  was  largely  snap  shooting,  and,  as  I  have  said, 
the  feeling  of  triumph  in  dropping  one  under  such  con- 
ditions was  great,  and  there  were  men  in  that  day  and 
there  are  men  to-day  who  will  agree  to  every  word  of 
this.  At  the  risk  of  calling  down  a  host  of  antagonists 
who  will  go  for  my  scalp,  I  will  say  that  the  grandest 
game  bird  of  America  is  the  ruffed  grouse,  called  "par- 
tridge" in  New  York  and  New  England,  and  "pheasant" 
in  Pennsylvania  and  the  South.  The  wild  turkey  is  a 
wary  bird,  and  carries  more  meat  about  his  person;  but 
an  experience  in  shooting  both  makes  me  put  the  turkey 
in  the  second  place. 

This  talk  has  led  me  from  Henry  Neaville,  whom  I 
wanted  you  to  know,  but  a  vagabond  pen  wandered  from 
the  subject.  I  will  tell  you  something  of  him  later  on, 
for  he  and  I  joined  a  party  of  Government  surveyors  a 
year  later  that  explored  a  portion  of  northern  Minnesota; 
but  before  we  get  to  that  I  must,  in  the  natural  order  of 
events,  tell  you  about  a  winter  spent  in  trapping  for  fur 
with  Antoine  Gardapee,  whom  you  met  in  the  first  part 
of  this  article.  Henry  was  my  intimate  companion  on 


CORPORAL  HENRY  R.  NEAVILLE.  199 

the  surveying  trip  and  afterward;  we  had  so  much  in 
common  that  we  could  not  keep  apart  if  we  had  tried. 

In  gathering  information  about  my  old-time  friends  I 
was  pleased  to  find  that  Hon.  J.  W.  Seaton  is  still  living 
in  Potosi.  During  the  time  of  which  I  write  he  pub- 
lished a  weekly  paper  there,  and  was  afterward  a  member 
of  the  State  Senate  for  several  terms.  He  writes  me  as 
follows:  "BiH  Patterson  is  living  at  Portland,  Ore.  All 
your  other  friends  are  dead  except  Thomas  Davies,  who 
went  with  you  on  the  surveying  trip.  Henry  and  Frank 
Neaville  went  out  with  Company  C,  Second  Wisconsin 
Infantry,  afterward  part  of  the  famous  'Iron  Brigade/ 
Henry  was  made  a  corporal,  and  Frank  was  first  ser- 
geant. Frank  was  killed  at  Bull  Run  August  28,  1862, 
and  Henry  was  killed  at  Antietam  nineteen  days  later." 

"The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight." 


ANTOINE    GARDAPEE. 

IN  THREE  CANTOS. 
CANTO  I. — TRAPPING  FUR — KILLING  A  WOLVERINE. 

IT  is  possible  that  there  may  be  another  way  to  spell 
this  name.  Antoine  never  spelled  it,  but  then  he 
couldn't  spell  any  other  word;  so  we  just  take  it  as 
it  sounded.  After  the  time  when  he  killed  the  doe  that 
was  with  my  buck  we  often  met.  Early  in  October  I 
dropped  into  his  cabin,  and  found  him  overhauling  a  lot 
of  steel  traps,  putting  in  a  rivet  here  and  there,  filing  the 
catch  to  hold  the  pan  stiffer,  or  to  make  it  go  off  easier, 
as  seemed  best.  His  back  was  to  the  open  door,  and  I 
watched  him  a  few  minutes  before  announcing  my  pres- 
ence by  knocking  on  the  door  frame  of  his  little  log 
shanty.  He  whirled  around  on  the  box  which  served 
as  a  bench  and  said:  "Come  in!  You  jess  a  man  I  want 
for  see.  Whar  you  be'n  so  long  tarn?  I  was  go  for  look 
you  up." 

"I've  been  working  hard  for  the  past  week,  and  have 

not  been  up  the  river  until  to-day,  when  my  partner, 

Guyon,  wanted  a  day  off ;  so  I  thought  I'd  drift  over  your 

way  and  see  if  I  couldn't  get  a  deer,  but  haven't  seen  any 

fresh  sign  this  morning.    About  a  mile  down  the  river  a 

big  flock  of  geese  got  up  and  came  over  my  head  very 

low,  and  if  I  had  had  a  shotgun  I  might  have  got  three 

or  four,  they  were  so  thick;  but  here's  one  that  dropped." 

"You  don'  eat  heem,  he's  a  t'ousan'  year  ol';  look  a 

200 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  201 

here,"  and  he  tried  to  tear  the  skin  under  its  wing  with 
no  effect.  "I'll  tole  you;  give  a-heem  to  ol'  Miss'r 
Knight;  he's  tough,  too.  How  much  a-mineral  Charley 
an'  you  clean  up  dis  a- week?" 

"Oh,  we  had  a  big  week,  and  cleaned  up  about  fifteen 
hundred.  Why?" 

"Yas,  all  drif;  nex'  week  you  don'  get  noding,  hey?" 

"Perhaps  so,  but  that's  miner's  luck;  we  can't  expect 
to  get  as  much  every  time.  It's  the  biggest  week  we've 
had,  and  only  five  days  at  that." 

"You  like-a  dat  work— no?" 

"No,  I  don't  like  it;  but  it  helps  a  fellow  to  live." 

"I  tole  you.  You  go  'long  o'  me  dis  winta  an'  trap. 
You  haf  good  time  an'  make  more  dan  dig  fur  de  lead. 
I  no  dig  fur  lead." 

And  so  it  happened.  He  was  getting  ready  to  spend 
the  winter  in  the  wilds  of  the  Bad  Ax  country  to  trap. 
After  hearing  his  scheme  I  agreed  to  go  with  him,  and 
we  started  in  to  get  ready.  He  had  all  the  steel  traps 
necessary  for  small  animals,  and  was  an  expert  at  making 
dead-falls  for  the  larger  ones.  We  drifted  down  to  Du- 
buque,  where  we  put  our  boat  and  other  things  on  a 
steamer  for  Prairie  du  Chien.  From  that  place  we  took 
a  supply  of  provisions,  mainly  of  flour,  coffee  and  sugar, 
for  Antoine  said  we  would  not  need  pork  nor  lard  be- 
cause we  could  get  fat  from  coons,  ducks  and  perhaps 
other  animals.  Our  outfit  was  simple,  but  it  loaded  our 
boat,  and  two  heavy  tarpaulins  protected  the  provisions. 
It  was  a  hard  pull  up  the  Wisconsin  River,  some  twenty 
miles,  to  the  mouth  of  the  Bad  Ax  River,  but  we  took 
it  easy,  and  the  second  night  we  camped  a  mile  or  so  up 
the  Bad  Ax.  This  camp  is  memorable  because  of  a 
storm  which  wet  us  to  the  skin,  but  the  provisions  and 
the  ammunition  were  kept  dry. 


202  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

We  went  on  up  the  little  river  some  fifty  miles,  more 
or  less,  hauling  over  or  around  falls,  when  we  hid  our 
boat  and  a  portion  of  the  provisions  and  started  on  foot 
to  some  spot  which  Antoine  seemed  familiar  with,  for  he 
had  been  over  the  ground  before.  The  way  he  stored 
the  provisions  was  curious.  After  dragging  the  boat 
back  from  the  river  we  hung  it  bottom  side  up  between 
two  trees,  and  then  put  out  lines  from  each  side  to  pre- 
vent it  turning  over.  Then  we  cut  poles  and  made  a 
shelf  on  the  seats,  covered  these  with  a  tarpaulin  and 
stored  our  provisions  in  the  boat. 

"Now,"  said  Antoine,  "Miss'r  Bear,  Miss'r  Coon  and 
Miss'r  Mouse,  you  doan  git  no  flour  and  you  doan  git  no 
sugar,  an',  Miss'r  Rain,  you  doan  spile  noding." 

We  took  our  rifles,  a  frying  pan,  axe  and  some  flour, 
coffee  and  salt,  and  started  up  the  river  into  Bad  Ax 
county,  which  some  man  with  no  regard  for  historic 
names  has  had  re-christened  "Vernon  county,"  a  change 
that  destroys  the  individuality  of  the  county,  for  there 
might  be  forty  Vernon  counties  in  the  United  States,  but 
there  would  be  only  one  having  the  old  name,  which 
savors  of  the  settlement  of  the  region  by  the  whites  and 
had  the  merit  of  being  unique.  I  have  no  idea  how  the 
old  name  came  to  the  river  and  afterward  the  county, 
but  will  predict  that  some  man  with  a  little  poetry  in  his 
soul  and  a  love  for  originality  will  arise  and  have  the  his- 
toric and  beautiful — I  say  beautiful  advisedly — name  of 
"Bad  Ax"  restored  to  the  county.  I  really  don't  know 
if  the  river  has  been  renamed,  but  hope  not. 

We  selected  our  camping  spot  some  few  miles  above 
the  fork  of  the  river,  on  the  east  branch,  where  several 
small  streams  came  in.  There  are,  no  doubt,  names  for 
all  these  now;  we  had  no  map  and  no  name  for  anything 
but  the  main  river,  yet  we  named  them  for  our  own  pur- 


ANTOINE  CARDAPEE.  203 

poses ;  that  was  necessary  in  order  to  be  understood,  and 
I  elaborated  a  map  on  my  powder  horn  which  showed 
all  the  streams,  swamps  and  hills  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 
This  horn  was  left  in  Potosi,  as  of  no  further  use.  Just 
what  I  would  give  to  see  it  hanging  on  a  wall  of  my  den 
to-day  I  cannot  say.  We  measure  the  things  of  the  mo- 
ment by  their  utility  or  their  cash  value,  but  those  of  the 
past  which  formed  a  part  of  our  lives  become  treasures 
beyond  price  when  they  serve  as  links  to  connect  us  with 
a  time  far  removed.  A  sword  that  was  "held  by  the 
enemy"  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  is  on  my  wall.  It 
may  be  sold  for  old  junk,  but  not  before  I  am  put  to  bed 
with  a  spade  and  sodded  over. 

Let's  see;  we  were  talking  about  an  old  powder  horn. 
It  cost  only  the  time  to  bore  out  the  tip,  fit  the  bottom 
and  to  polish  the  thing — a  mere  nothing — but  it's  so  easy 
to  get  off  the  track.  I  was  only  going  to  say  to  the  boys 
of  to-day:  Never  throw  away  anything  that  you  can 
keep.  A  trifling  thing  becomes  priceless  after  forty 
years  have  passed.  That's  all ! 

When  the  old  trapper  threw  down  his  load  and  said, 
"We  make  here  our  house,"  his  partner,  who  had  begun 
to  think  that  there  was  no  end  to  the  journey,  rejoiced. 
On  a  little  knoll  we  laid  the  foundation  for  the  cabin. 
Antoine  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  so  handy  with  an 
axe  that  you  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  a  clock  made  by 
him  with  that  tool  alone,  and  he  measured  and  notched 
the  logs  and  showed  me  how  to  put  the  small  ends,  that 
made  the  sides,  to  the  rear,  and  so  help  the  slant  of  the 
roof.  He  split  the  long  three-foot  shingles,  a  few 
"puncheons"  for  part  of  a  floor,  on  which  we  slept,  and 
also  for  the  door  frames  and  the  door.  We  chinked  the 
logs,  and  plastered  them  with  clay  mixed  with  coarse 
grass,  made  a  fireplace  and  stone  chimney,  and  then 


204  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

we  were  in  a  ten-by-twelve  cabin,  with  a  shed  roof  kept 
in  place  by  weight  poles.  A  stone  oven  was  made  in  the 
fireplace,  where  we  could  not  only  bake  bread,  raised 
with  cream  o'  tartar  and  soda,  but  could  also  roast  a 
goose  or  a  venison  ham. 

Not  until  we  began  to  build  our  camp  would  the  old 
man  let  me  kill  a  deer,  although  we  saw  plenty  of  them, 
because  he  said  that  we  could  not  carry  any  part  of  it; 
so  we  had  lived  on  partridges,  rabbits  and  a  coon  on  the 
journey,  and  a  change  to  venison  was  good.  The  bed 
was  made  with  hemlock  boughs  on  the  puncheons,  and 
covered  with  a  tarpaulin  and  blankets.  A  swinging 
shelf  was  made  to  hold  the  remaining  provisions  secure 
from  rats  or  other  intruders,  and  we  started  down  stream 
for  supplies,  taking  only  one  rifle,  an  axe  and  enough 
salt,  matches,  etc.,  to  last  a  week,  for  we  had  been  three 
days  going  up  from  the  place  where  the  boat  was  left. 
After  a  two  days'  tramp  we  found  our  provisions  as  we 
had  left  them,  and  loaded  up  again  and  started  for  camp. 
Just  how  it  happened,  no  one  knows;  my  rifle  had  only 
one  trigger,  and  that  could  be  "set"  by  pushing  it  for- 
ward, and  the  "set"  was  so  light  that  a  breath  would  al- 
most let  it  off.  Of  course  it  could  be  used  without  the 
"set,"  and  then  it  took  about  a  two-pound  pull  to  let  it  go. 
I  had  started  ahead,  and  in  my  pack  was  the  frying-pan, 
which  projected  over  my  shoulder  alongside  my  head. 
Suddenly  a  shot  startled  me  close  to  my  ear,  and  on  look- 
ing around  at  Antoine  he  said:  "What  for  he  go  so  easy? 
I  t'ought  I  kill  one  pa-tridge  on  de  tree  yonder,  an'  I  on'y 
make  a  hole  in  dat  fry-pan;  de  t'ing  go  off  too  quick,  an' 
mos'  kill  you,  hey?" 

The  grouse  had  not  stirred,  and  I  loaded  the  rifle, 
showed  Antoine  how  a  single  trigger  could  be  set  to  a 
"hair,"  and  he  picked  the  head  off  the  partridge,  saying; 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  205 

"Ba  gosh!  he  go  so  easy  as  a  gun  wit'  two  trigger;  I  doan 
on'stan  dat."  He  learned  the  trick,  and  after  beating 
down  the  edges  of  the  hole  in  the  frying-pan  and  putting 
in  one  of  the  trap  rivets  and  battering  it  down  with  the 
poll  ot  the  axe  we  went  on.  It  took  four  trips  to  get  all 
our  plunder  from  the  boat  to  the  camp,  and  the  snows 
had  fallen  before  the  last  one  was  made,  and  our  snow- 
shoes  were  worn  instead  of  being  carried,  for  without 
them  we  would  have  been  there  until  spring,  for  the  snow 
was  two  feet  deep  and  still  falling  when  we  reached  our 
cabin.  To  our  surprise  there  was  smoke  coming  from 
the  chimney,  and  when  we  opened  the  door  there  was  an 
Indian  cooking  a  rabbit  by  the  fire. 

He  arose,  shook  hands  with  Antoine  and  then  with 
me,  and  the  Frenchman  and  he  sat  down  and  talked  in 
the  Ojibwa  tongue  for  a  while,  and  then  my  friend  ex- 
plained the  matter  in  this  way:  The  red  man  was  an  old 
acquaintance  who  had  found  our  camp  and  entered,  as 
was  their  custom;  he  knew  Antoine's  rifle,  saw  that  the 
camp  was  new,  and  waited  for  our  return.  He  tapped 
his  breast  and  said  to  me,  "Nidgee,"  which  I  understood 
to  be  his  name,  and  so  called  him,  although  I  afterward 
learned  that  the  word  meant  simply  "friend." 

It  is  difficult  to  get  at  the  way  these  Indian  words 
should  be  spelt;  for  instance,  they  call  themselves  O-jib- 
wah,  and  the  white  man  first  twists  it  into  Ojibway 
and  then  into  "Chippeway."  The  word  which  I  spell 
"Nidgee"  is  sometimes  given  as  "Nitchee,"  and  so  it 
goes ;  it's  a  question  of  how  it  sounds  and  how  it  may  be 
twisted  at  second  hand.  When  I  was  among  them  they 
pronounced  the  tribal  name  with  an  almost  impercep- 
tible "O,"  and  the  accent  on  the  second  syllable,  as  given 
above.  Our  red  friend  came  and  went  at  intervals  all 
winter,  never  saying  a  word  at  leaving  and  only  giving  a 


206  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

salutatory  grunt  on  arriving.  Antoine  explained  that  his 
friend's  name  was  Ah-se-bun,  or  Raccoon,  and  that  he 
was  a  good  man  to  know;  I  gave  him  a  big  plug  of  to- 
bacco, and  we  were  friends. 

After  getting  the  cabin  well  fixed  for  the  winter  we 
started  to  put  out  a  line  of  traps  up  a  branch  of  the  little 
stream,  which  was  to  be  my  line.  We  were  gone  three 
days,  and  had  good  dry  weather,  covered  about  thirty 
miles  in  all — fifteen  up  one  stream,  then  over  a  divide 
and  down  another,  which  came  into  the  first  one  near  our 
shanty — but  we  set  about  forty  steel  traps  of  different 
sizes,  for  otter  near  falls  and  rapids,  for  mink  under  tree 
roots  and  other  covered  places,  and  for  "black  cat,"  pine 
marten  and  ermine  in  their  haunts.  We  made  many 
dead-falls  for  some  of  these  animals  where  it  was  possible 
to  drive  stakes  or  arrange  them  on  stumps,  and  for  these 
we  carried  bait  of  venison  and  fish.  This  was  my  first 
three  days  on  snowshoes,  and  the  weight  of  them,  added 
to  the  unusual  gait  which  they  require,  made  some  mus- 
cles that  had  not  been  used  to  a  loping  gait  very  sore. 
But  the  truth  came  out  when  we  reached  the  cabin  and 
hung  the  snowshoes  up,  for  Antoine  asked:  "You  tired, 
hey?  I  t'ink  t'ree  day'  on  snowshoe'  pooty  good  fur  fust 
time;  he  make  me  sore  fust,  but,  like  de  skate,  you  git 
used  to  dat  kine,  an'  bime-by  you  t'ink  de  snowshoe  de 
best  fur  de  walk.  Jess  so  me  w'en  I  be  in  de  wood  all 
winter.  W'at  you  say,  hey?  S'pose  we  res'  two,  t'ree 
day'  an'  fish,  den  I  go  put  my  line  o'  trap  an'  you  run 
yours;  what  you  say,  hey?" 

"Well,  Antoine,  I  do  feel  tired  in  my  legs,  and  if  you 
are  tired,  too,  I'll  do  just  as  you  say.  We'll  fish  a  day  or 
two,  and  get  a  change  of  feed,  and  then  you  go  and  lay 
out  your  line  and  I'll  run  over  mine." 

This  put  it  in  such  shape  that  the  tired  feeling  was 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  207 

mutual,  as  indeed  it  was,  for  the  first  skating  or  snow- 
shoeing  of  the  season  strains  muscles  in  an  unusual 
way.  And  we  rested  and  fished.  We  used  bits  of  veni- 
son for  bait,  and  laid  in  a  stock  of  trout  and  some  other 
small  fish,  which  we  stored  in  the  snow  when  frozen. 

A  portion  of  a  deer  had  been  hung  on  the  north  side 
of  the  cabin,  and  it  had  been  torn  and  picked  in  a  way 
that  neither  dogs,  wolves  nor  bears  could  nor  would  have 
mutilated  it,  because  the  tearing  had  been  done  from  the 
upper  side.  I  called  my  partner's  attention  to  it,  and 
suggested  that  ravens  had  found  us  out. 

He  looked  at  the  meat  and  said:  "Miss'r  Raven  he 
doan  lak  come  near  shanty,  but  dem  mis'able  meat  hawk 
he  come  an'  take  de  meat  out  yo'  mouf.  I  hate  dat  cuss, 
de  meanes'  bird  in  de  wood,  'cause  he  no  'fraid.  You 
keep  a'  eye  out  an'  see  how  I  fix  him  wid  a  flip." 

I  saw  the  bird  the  same  day.  It  was  the  "Canada 
jay,"  "meat  hawk,"  "whiskey  jack,"  etc.,  a  relative  of  our 
blue  jay,  tmt  not  so  noisy.  As  I  have  since  known  this 
Northern  bird  on  its  extreme  Southern  limit  in  winter, 
in  Michigan  and  Minnesota,  it  is  of  an  ashy  gray  color, 
with  black  and  white  markings,  and  so  unfamiliar  with 
man  as  to  be  impudent,  and  therefore  very  interesting. 
This  is  all  very  well  when  a  bird  visits  you  in  a  winter 
camp  where  birds  are  scarce,  and  one  drops  down  by 
your  feet,  hops  around  and  swipes  a  venison  chop  or  a 
fish  which  has  been  laid  out  ready  for  the  pan;  but  when 
it  invites  all  its  sisters,  its  cousins  and  its  aunts  to  a  feast 
on  a  saddle  of  venison,  which  you  have  left  out  for  safe- 
keeping entirely  for  your  own  purposes,  the  familiarity 
of  the  bird  breeds  a  feeling  which  differs  from  contempt. 
Somewhere  back  in  memory  the  word  "flip"  seemed  con- 
nected with  some  sort  of  a  beverage,  and  I  imagined  that 
Antoine  intended  to  give  "whiskey  jack"  a  drink  that 


208  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

would  paralyze  him;  that  was  a  natural  conclusion,  al- 
though we  had  no  whiskey. 

"I  tell  you;  come  see  me  fix  de  flip;  he  come  here  for 
heat  my  meat  an'  he'll  get  de  flip;  I  fix  him."  He  re- 
moved the  chinking  from  between  the  logs  for  a  foot, 
and  ran  out  a  long  shingle  and  put  a  piece  of  meat  on  the 
outer  end.  Soon  the  enemy  alighted  on  the  shingle, 
when  down  came  the  axe  on  its  inside  end,  and  a  dead 
"meat  hawk"  was  tossed  in  the  air.  "I  tole  you  he  got 
de  flip — he  want  no  more,  an'  now  all  hees  brudder  got 
to  get  de  flip,  an'  den  we  got  no  trouble  no  mo'."  Dur- 
ing our  three  days'  rest  we  killed  about  twenty  with  the 
"flip,"  and  went  our  rounds  of  traps  knowing  that  there 
were  a  few  less  meat  hawks  to  prey  upon  our  stores. 

I  stayed  in  camp  alone  for  three  days  after  our  rest, 
while  Antoine  went  over  his  line  and  set  his  traps.  The 
first  trip  was  the  greatest  labor  of  all,  for  it  involved 
selecting  places  and  building  dead-falls,  but  I  was  get- 
ting my  tired  muscles  into  condition  by  a  rest  which  was 
merely  a  change  of  occupation.  The  rifle  was  to  be 
cleaned  and  oiled;  knives  were  to  be  sharpened;  wood 
to  be  cut;  bullets  to  be  moulded  from  bar  lead,  and  other 
things  to  be  done,  besides  cooking  and  washing  under- 
clothing. 

While  fishing  in  the  stream  on  the  third  day  after  An- 
toine left,  there  suddenly  appeared  seven  Indians,  in  com- 
pany with  my  friend  Ah-se-bun.  None  of  them  could 
or  would  speak  English,  and  after  a  repetition  of  the 
word  "Tah-so-je-ge"  and  some  gesticulation  I  began  to 
understand  that  they  were  asking  for  Antoine.  Later  I 
learned  that  "je-ge"  meant  "he  who  does,"  and  that  "tah- 
so"  referred  to  traps.  As  I  gradually  picked  up  some 
of  their  words  and  tried  to  use  them,  I  often  began  a 
sentence  to  Antoine  with  "Nidgee  Tah-so-je-get  would 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  209 

you  like  fish  or  venison?"  etc.  That  day  when  I  was 
tound  fishing  my  red  friend  had  named  me  "Kego-e- 
kay,"  or  he  who  fishes,  and  I  arranged  with  Antoine  to 
always  use  the  native  tongue  when  possible;  and  before 
spring  it  was  our  common  camp  talk,  he  helping  me  over 
the  hummocks.  I  entertained  our  red  friends  as  well  as 
possible,  and  their  appetites  were  enormous.  Antoine 
had  fully  informed  me  on  all  the  points  of  O  jib  way  eti- 
quette, and  when  I  offered  tobacco  the  exact  amount 
was  cut  off  and  handed  to  each  individual,  or  he  would 
have  considered  that  the  whole  plug  was  given  him;  and 
the  same  circumspection  was  necessary  when  a  loaf  of 
bread  was  cut. 

I  tried  to  get  our  visitors  to  follow  Antoine's  trail  and 
meet  him,  as  the  prospect  of  feeding  eight  hungry  In- 
dians was  not  pleasant,  but  they  waited.  I  had  two 
loaves  of  bread;  one  for  me  to  take  next  morning  when 
I  ran  my  line,  and  one  for  supper  when  Antoine  came. 
A  venison  ham  was  boiling  in  the  fireplace  to  have  for 
supper  and  breakfast,  and  to  keep  me  three  days  if  neces- 
sary; but  when  I  got  ready  to  set  it  out  to  our  guests 
Antoine  came  in.  There  was  a  grunting  salutation,  and 
then  Antoine  said:  "I  don't  bin  hungry,  but  ba  gosh  if 
I'll  bin  starve;  it  was  good  I  come  now  'fore  dey  heat  all 
dat  grub  we  got.  You  don't  know  w'at  happetite  dey 
got,  I'll  tole  you."  And  I  certainly  didn't  know.  An- 
toine first  cut  bread  and  meat  for  himself  and  me,  and 
then  divided  the  rest  into  eight  portions,  which  were 
hardly  chewed,  and  had  disappeared  before  we  had  fairly 
begun. 

Antoine  then  told  me:  "Dey  ha'n't  had  half  plenty, 
but  dey  all  say  'nish-ish-shin;'  dat  means  'good.'  We 
doan  got  much  meat,  on'y  for  you  free  day,  an'  I  doan 
cook  no  more." 


210  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

A  smoke  followed,  and  then  it  transpired,  as  Antoine 
translated  it,  that  one  of  their  friends  had  somehow 
broken  his  leg,  and  they  wanted  him  to  go  and  set  it. 
The  distance  to  their  camp  was  only  five  miles,  and  if  I 
didn't  mind  he  would  go  at  once.  It  seems  that  he  had 
a  reputation  for  surgery  among  these  people,  and  I  had 
three  good  reasons  for  wishing  him  to  start  immediately. 
Of  course  the  humanity  of  fixing  the  man's  leg  was  one 
reason;  keeping  on  good  terms  with  men  who  could  rob 
and  destroy  our  traps  and  drive  us  out  of  the  country 
was  another,  and  I  fear  that  the  third  was  a  desire  to  get 
rid  of  guests  who  would  devour  our  stores  and  breed  a 
famine  was  as  strong  a  reason  as  the  other  two. 

After  the  exodus  I  cooked  a  partridge  and  some  veni- 
son chops  to  take  on  the  line,  baked  two  more  loaves  of 
bread,  and  had  the  kettle  boiling  to  make  coffee  when 
Antoine  should  return.  A  light  rain  the  night  before 
had  made  a  crust  upon  the  snow  and  snowshoes  were  not 
needed.  It  was  long  after  dark  when  his  step  was  heard 
crunching  in  the  crust,  and  in  he  walked  with  his  rifle 
and  a  coon.  I  told  him  that  it  was  well  that  he  had  the 
coon,  for  I  had  cooked  all  the  meat  in  sight,  and  there 
was  only  enough  for  our  supper  and  for  me  to  take  on 
my  trip.  There  were  fish  enough  for  breakfast,  and  now 
there  was  coon  fat  enough  to  fry  them  in.  In  the  words 
of  that  old  hunting  song  of  Mr.  Raynor's:  "Why  should 
the  hunter  lack?" 

Antoine  said:  "Dat  make  no  difF.  Wen  I'll  got 
hunger  I'll  catch  de  feesh  or  I'll  kill  a  deer  or  pa'tridge, 
or  I'll  go  hunger.  It  makes  no  diff',  I'll  come  along, 
you  doan  min'  me,  no." 

After  supper  we  smoked  in  silence.  I  had  said  all 
that  could  be  said  about  the  camp  larder  in  order  that 
he  might  not  put  off  replenishing  it  before  he  got  hun- 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  211 

giy,  and  was  anxious  to  know  all  about  the  broken  leg 
and  why  so  many  Indians  were  so  close  to  us.  Not  a 
question  would  I  ask  of  the  old  man.  He  would  tell  it 
all  in  his  own  way  if  left  alone,  and  would  be  better  satis- 
fied to  do  it  in  that  way.  We  sat  in  front  of  the  log  fire 
on  three-legged  stools  which  his  axe  had  fashioned,  and 
smoked  in  silence  until  he  said:  "Han'  me  that  plug 
tobac."  I  passed  him  the  tobacco,  and  he  slowly  sliced 
a  pipeful,  ground  it  in  his  palms,  filled  his  pipe  and 
lighted  it  with  a  sliver  from  a  dry  pine  stick.  I  emptied 
my  pipe  and  followed  suit.  As  he  contemplated  the 
smoke  curl  up  and  mingle  with  that  of  the  fire,  he  re- 
moved the  pipe  and  said:  "Dese  Injun  jess  lak  w'ite  man, 
some  smart  an'  some  tarn  fool."  He  was  thawing  out, 
and  to  assist  the  process  I  kept  silent  and  let  him  go  on 
thinking  until  he  got  ready  to  tell  as  much  as  he  wished. 
After  a  few  more  puffs  he  said :  "De  big  fella  dat  was 
here,  hees  name  was  'She-kog,'  an'  dat  mean  de  skunk; 
but  he  ain't  got  no  sense  like  a  skunk.  All  dese  men  dey 
go  on  up  on  a  Flambeau  riv',  dey  no  stay  on  a  Bad  Ax 
riv,  an'  She-kog  he  go  fur  to  break  a  stick  an'  hit  O-ge- 
ma,  the  head  man,  an'  broke  his  bone  in  his  O-bwam, 
w'at  you  call  dat  bone  here?"  indicating  his  thigh. 
"Well,  when  I  foun'  ole  O-ge-ma  he  say  'ugh'*  an'  I  feel 
hees  laig.  Sho  'nuff  she  was  broke.  I  get  some  wood 
f'um  dry  pine  an'  make  splits  an'  tear  up  blanket,  an'  den 
I  take  hees  foot  in  bote  han's  an'  put  ma  foot  in  hees 
crotch  an'  I  pull  lak  de  dev'  till  bones  slip  togedder  an'  I 
feel  'em  all  rite.  Den  de  woman  win'  hees  laig  in 
blanket,  an'  I  put  on  some  split  wood  an'  more  blanket 
an'  hees  laig  it  get  all  rite.  Dey  go  'way  in  mornin'  an* 
carry  O-ge-ma  'longside.  Gimme  dat  tobac." 

*This  Indian  salutation  has  been  Anglicized  into  "how,"  and  further 
polluted  into  "here's  how." 


212  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

In  the  morning  I  started  to  run  my  line.  Two  days 
would  do  it  easily  if  the  weather  was  good,  but  rations 
for  three  was  a  wise  provision.  A  rifle  and  ammunition 
for  a  dozen  shots  was  also  needed.  Matches  in  a  vial, 
blankets,  some  strong  twine  and  a  belt  axe  completed 
the  outfit,  except  the  snowshoes,  which  were  slung  on 
the  back  in  case  of  need,  for  the  crust  might  soften  or 
fresh  snow  might  fall,  and  snowshoes  were  now  in  the 
same  category  as  the  traditional  pistol  in  Texas.  This 
made  a  fairly  good  load  for  a  novice,  and  it  was  increased 
by  several  skins  before  noon. 

Night  came;  and  as  I  ate  supper  by  a  little  fire  and 
crawled  under  my  blankets  with  my  feet  to  the  fire  and 
the  upper  half  of  my  body  in  the  hollow  of  a  big  tree 
there  came  a  sense  of  loneliness  that  is  indescribable. 
Perhaps  there  was  some  fear,  but  as  near  as  I  can  recall 
it  the  main  feeling  was  one  of  helplessness.  The  night 
was  still,  cold  and  clear.  The  stars  shone  through  the 
top  of  the  leafless,  hardwood  trees.  I  looked  over  the 
rifle.  It  was  a  big  and  tolerably  accurate  one;  the  cap 
was  sound  and — "Pshaw!"  I  thought,  "a  man  armed  as  I 
am  is  the  most  dangerous  animal  in  these  woods;  now 
go  to  sleep."  That  was  truly  philosophical,  but — philos- 
ophy and  sleep  are  not  identical.  Not  a  twig  or  an 
acorn  dropped  within  hearing  that  escaped  my  over- 
sensitive ear.  The  fire  was  replenished  several  times, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  day  would  never  come. 

If  I  lost  consciousness  for  a  moment  that  night  it 
must  have  been  the  briefest  of  moments.  Camping  out 
with  Port  Tyler  and  the  boys  was  one  thing,  but  this  was 
another.  Every  owl  that  ventured  a  remark  seemed  to 
be  making  reference  to  me.  If  a  rabbit  ran  on  the  hard 
snow  and  cracked  his  joints  as  a  call  or  challenge  I  heard 
it — but  then  the  fact  is  I  was  not  sleepy.  No  man  can 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  213 

sleep  when  he  isn't  sleepy;  there's  nothing  queer  in  that. 
Near  daylight  I  was  startled  by  the  tramp  of  some 
animal,  and  I  sat  up  and  listened.  The  sound  came 
from  the  stream  below,  which  glinted  in  the  starlight, 
and  I  made  out  a  moving  form  going  down  stream.  I 
thought  it  must  be  a  bear,  and  if  I  could  kill  it  then  life 
would  be  worth  living,  if  only  to  tell  of  it.  I  stood  up 
in  the  hollow  of  the  great  tree,  and  tried  to  get  the  rifle 
sights  in  line  with  the  animal's  forequarters,  but  the  dif- 
fused light  from  snow  and  stars  made  it  seem  impossible 
to  tell  where  the  gun  was  sighted.  The  thing  stopped; 
it  had  probably  scented  my  camp,  and  partly  at  random 
I  fired.  A  mingled  cry  and  growl,  a  floundering  in  the 
snow  and  a  hasty  reloading  of  the  rifle  followed.  On 
reaching  the  spot,  not  more  than  fifty  yards  distant,  blood 
could  be  seen  on  the  snow  and  I  followed.  Morning 
was  visible  in  the  east,  and  by  the  time  the  sun  was  up 
I  had  run  down  my  game,  which  was  weak  from  copious 
bleeding.  It  turned  at  bay.  It  was  not  a  bear,  but  what 
could  it  be?  It  made  a  feeble  charge  on  me,  which  I 
dodged,  and  then  dropped  it  with  a  bullet  in  the  head. 
Now  that  it  was  dead  I  had  no  idea  what  it  could  be. 
Of  lions,  tigers,  elephants  and  other  animals  of  Asia  and 
Africa  I  had  knowledge,  but  here  was  a  beast  in  an 
American  forest  of  which  I  had  never  heard  nor  read  of  in 
my  school  books.  It  was  bear-like,  but  not  a  bear.  Its 
body  was  heavy;  its  legs  thick  and  clumsy;  its  tail  bushy, 
and  it  had  a  round  head  with  eyes  wide  apart.  The  hair 
was  shaggy  and  thick,  the  color  being  almost  black,  with 
a  light  stripe  along  the  sides  which  met  at  the  insertion 
of  the  tail.  It  was  about  three  feet  long,  and  might  have 
weighed  150  pounds.  This  is  how  I  remember  it,  and 
under  such  circumstances  a  young  fellow  with  tastes  of 
the  naturalist  notes  such  izhings.  I  skinned  the  beast, 


214:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

and  the  smell  of  the  meat  said  plainly  that  whatever  this 
thing  may  be  I  would  starve  before  I  would  eat  it.  It 
was  an  odor  like  that  of  mink,  weasels  and  other  beasts 
of  prey,  or  rather,  those  which  live  on  flesh  exclusively — 
for  the  flesh  of  the  bear,  coon,  hog  and  other  omnivora 
has  no  such  smell.  One  hindleg  had  been  broken  and 
the  other  injured — a  most  fortunate  shot  in  the  uncer- 
tain light,  and  one  of  pure  and  unadulterated  luck. 

After  a  toilet  in  the  brook  and  a  good  breakfast — 
such  a  breakfast  as  only  one  with  an  appetite  such  as  I 
had,  after  the  morning's  work,  can  appreciate — I  crossed 
the  divide,  and  struck  the  other  stream,  which  led  home- 
ward; yes,  that's  the  word;  it  was  home  now.  Soon  I 
came  to  a  dead-fall  which  had  been  wrecked ;  the  back  of 
it  had  been  broken  into  and  the  bait  taken.  I  thought 
that  some  animal  had  approached  it  from  the  rear,  and 
in  ignorance  that  the  other  side  was  open  and  that  the 
trigger  held  a  hospitable  log,  which  would  induce  him  to 
remain  by  falling  and  breaking  his  back,  had  considered 
that  the  only  way  to  get  at  the  desired  bait  was  to  break 
in  from  the  side  he  first  came  to.  After  finding  a  dozen 
or  more  dead-falls  entered  in  the  same  manner  I  began 
thinking.  The  more  I  thought  of  the  matter  the  further 
I  was  from  any  conclusion.  The  crust  on  the  snow  was 
now  too  hard  to  show  any  tracks  except  of  deer,  whose 
small  hoofs  cut  through  it  and  often  left  bloody  marks 
where  the  crust  had  retaliated. 

When  I  reached  camp,  Antoine  had  just  finished  his 
laundry  work  and  was  hanging  it  up.  Here  I  want  to 
tell  the  young  boys  that  a  trapper's  life  is  a  hard  one, 
aside  from  the  exposure  in  running  lines  of  traps.  With 
two  it  is  lighter  because  of  a  division  of  labor,  but  to  run 
a  line  two  or  three  days,  skin,  stretch  and  then  flesh  the 
skins  so  that  particles  of  fat  do  not  injure  them,  cook  for 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  215 

yourself  and  partner,  wash  your  underclothing,  mend 
clothes,  moccasins  or  shoe  packs  and  snowshoes,  besides 
cleaning  guns,  running  bullets  and  doing  the  hundred 
and  one  things  that  must  be  done,  keeps  one  busy  every 
hour  of  daylight  and  often  afterward.  It  is  an  inde- 
pendent sort  of  life,  free  from  being  bossed ;  but  it  is  hard 
work  in  a  healthy  climate,  and  full  of  adventure  to  one 
who  loves  it. 

Antoine  looked  over  my  skins.  They  comprised  one 
otter,  two  mink,  one  ermine  or  white  weasel,  one  fisher 
or  "black-cat,"  which  he  called  by  the  Indian  name  of 
o-jig,  and  is  a  strange  animal  of  the  mink  or  weasel  fam- 
ily which  the  naturalists  know  as  Mustela  canadensis,  but 
it  also  called  "pekan"  and  other  names.  There  was  also 
a  foot  and  part  of  a  leg,  saved  for  Antoine's  identifica- 
tion, which  he  called  sable,  an  animal  better  known  as 
pine  marten.  Then  came  the  skin  of  the  unknown 
beast.  When  he  saw  that  he  jumped  and  yelled.  Then 
he  shook  hands  with  me  and  said:  "You  b'en  done  it; 
you  killed  de  ole  dev',  old  Carcajou;  he  break  all  de  trap 
you  set;  he  know  all  'bout  trap,  an'  he  go  in  on  hin'  end 
and  steal  bait.  He  follow  you'  track  to  all  you'  trap, 
and  w'en  he  fin'  he  break  'em,  mebbe  he  steal  'em.  Oh, 
he  spile  our  trap  all  a  time,  but  you  got-a  heem.  Shake." 

It  was  a  wolverine,  an  animal  with  many  names,  and 
the  worst  enemy  the  trapper  meets.  The  badger  is  also 
called  carcajou. 

A  day  spent  in  stretching  and  fleshing  skins,  and  then 
Antoine  started  to  run  his  line.  Our  bake  oven  had 
fallen  in,  and  I  brought  better  stones  from  the  brook  and 
built  it  anew  in  the  fireplace,  cooked  my  dinner  and  sup- 
per from  the  carcass  of  a  deer,  which  Antoine  had  killed 
and  dressed,  sat  by  the  fire,  smoked  a  while  and  turned 
in  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  Tired  and  worn  out, 


216  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

acorns  might  fall,  rabbits  might  snap  their  legs  and  wol- 
verines might  prowl  around.  I  had  killed  a  wolverine, 
a  stealthy  night  prowler  that  from  pure  deviltry  destroys 
the  work  of  the  trapper,  and  that  was  glory  enough  for  a 
first  trip.  I  have  no  remembrance  of  any  dreams  that 
night.  I  could  have  said  with  Sancho  Panza: 

"Blessings  light  on  him  who  first  invented  sleep!  It 
covers  a  man  all  over,  thoughts  and  all,  like  a  cloak;  it  is 
meat  for  the  hungry,  drink  for  the  thirsty,  heat  for  the 
cold,  and  cold  for  the  hot;  in  short,  money  that  buys 
everything;  balance  and  weight  that  makes  the  shepherd 
equal  to  the  monarch  and  the  fool  to  the  wise;  there  is 
only  one  evil  in  sleep,  as  I  have  heard,  and  it  is  that  it 
resembles  death,  since  between  a  dead  and  a  sleeping 
man  there  is  little  difference." 

The  sun  was  high  when  I  awoke,  and  by  my  side 
stood  Ah-se-bun;  but  I'll  tell  you  about  that  another 
time. 


ANTOINE   GARDAPEE. 


CANTO    II. — ANOTHER   WOLVERINE — SNOW   BLIND. 


I    WOULD  ask  all  such  "tenderfeet,"  in  whose  ranks 
I  was  then  a  recruit,  although  the  term  had  not 
been  invented,  how  they  would  feel  to  awake  in  a 
cabin  in  a  forest  where  there  was  no  white  man  within 
forty  miles,  except  a  partner  who  was  off  running  a  line 
of  traps,  and  find  an  Indian  standing  silently  by  the  bed? 
Just  put  yourself  in  his  place. 

After  the  choking  sensation  which  comes  with  such  a 
scare,  and  a  partly  paralyzed  heart  had  begun  its  regular 
work,  the  firelight,  which,  by  the  way,  the  intruder  had 
replenished,  showed  the  features  of  our  friend  Ah-se- 
bun,  who  gave  a  saluting  grunt  and  turned  toward  the 
fire,  where  he  sat  until  I  arose,  washed  and  dressed  and 
prepared  to  get  breakfast.  The  door  had  been  held  shut 
against  wind  and  snow  by  a  prop,  for  there  was  no  fear 
of  animals  where  there  was  a  man  and  a  fire,  and  our 
guest  had  somehow  removed  that  without  disturbing  my 
sleep,  but  how  long  he  had  been  in  the  cabin  was  un- 
known. He  held  down  a  stool  by  the  fire,  while  I  cooked 
breakfast,  and  he  sat  there  and  ate  enough  for  half  a 
dozen  laboring  men,  and  drank  coffee  until  there  was 
none  left.  Antoine  had  taught  me  never  to  betray  any 
curiosity,  and  so  I  handed  over  a  pipeful  of  tobacco  and 
waited.  Old  Raccoon  looked  at  me  inquiringly,  and  I 
at  once  filled  my  pipe,  although  I  never  could  endure 

217 


218  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

tobacco  in  the  morning,  and  I  took  a  few  puffs  and 
awaited  his  pleasure,  curious  to  know  why  he  had  made 
such  an  unconventional  call  at  so  early  an  hour.  He 
smoked  his  pipe  out,  emptied  it,  and  sat  for  what  seemed 
a  long  time  before  he  spoke. 

After  some  repetition  and  much  gesticulation,  it  ap- 
peared that  he  had  met  Antoine,  and  that  the  latter  had 
killed  a  bear,  and  I  must  go  with  him  and  help  get  it  to 
camp,  and  after  arranging  things  in  the  cabin,  I  took 
down  my  rifle  to  start  when  my  guest  shook  his  head 
and  said,  "Kowin,"  and  I  replaced  it  at  the  door.  I  un- 
derstood then  that  there  would  be  load  enough  without 
a  ten-pound  rifle,  and  we  went  off  to  bring  in  the  bear. 

Enough  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night  to  make 
hard  travelling  without  snowshoes,  so  we  tied  them  on 
and  started — Ah-se-bun  in  the  lead — up  a  stream  on  the 
west  side  where  I  had  never  been,  but  where  my  part- 
ner's line  of  traps  began.  A  tramp  of  some  five  miles 
brought  us  to  the  place  where  Antoine  had  killed  the 
bear,  about  a  mile  off  his  line.  He  was  there  cooking 
his  breakfast  when  we  arrived,  for  he  had  been  up  and 
had  the  bear  skinned  and  dressed  before  he  started  in  to 
cook.  It  happened  that  he  had  run  his  first  line  of  traps 
some  fifteen  miles,  and  was  crossing  the  divide  to  his 
homestretch  when  he  found  a  fresh  bear  track  in  the 
snow,  which  had  begun  to  fall  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
he  turned  and  followed  it.  The  track  led  him  back 
toward  camp,  and  he  came  upon  bruin  about  sunset  and 
killed  it  where  we  found  him. 

When  we  came  up  to  him  he  said:  "I  t'ink  you  better 
come  up  and  take  ole  Afum  to  camp,  an'  I'll  go  on  an' 
run  my  trap,  hey?  What  you  want?  Bre'kfuss?  I 
t'ink  yes." 

I  said  to  him:  "I  have  been  to  breakfast,  but  can  eat 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  219 

a  little  more  after  the  long  tramp  on  snowshoes;  but  if 
you'll  only  let  our  friend  the  Raccoon  have  a  fair  whack 
at  that  bear  the  load  will  be  lighter  to  carry.  He's  had 
one  big  breakfast — about  five  times  as  much  as  I  could 
eat — but  just  let  him  fill  up  on  bear  meat,  and  our  load 
home  will  be  light." 

Antoine  thought  a  minute  and  replied:  'Til  tole  you. 
I'll  doan  lak  bear  leever,  but  a  Injun  he  lak  him  bes'  of 
all.  I'll  cook-a  heem  dat  leever,  an'  you'll  heat  my  col' 
pa'tridge  w'at  I  roas'  las'  night  w'en  da  bear  was  warm. 
I'll  tole  you  I'll  have  long  chase  for  Afum,  an'  I  t'ink  I'll 
loss  him  in  a  dark,  but  he  stop  to  look  roun'  an'  I  get 
him.  He  good  an'  fat,  an'  w'en  he  freeze  I  lak  heem  jess 
so  good  as  de  pork,  an'  he  make  some  good  fat  for  fry 
de  feesh  an'  roas'  de  pa'tridge." 

For  years  the  name  "Afum"  bothered  me.  The 
Ojibway  name  for  the  bear  is  muckwo,  and,  as  the  word 
was  neither  French  nor  Indian,  it  was  a  puzzle  until  in 
later  years  I  learned  that  Western  hunters  call  the  griz- 
zly bear  "Ephraim,"  and  this  must  have  been  the  name 
which  the  trapper  tried  to  use. 

Antoine  rigged  a  couple  of  light,  flexible  poles  to  a 
piece  of  bark,  on  which  we  placed  the  hindquarters  of  the 
animal,  wrapped  in  its  skin.  A  short,  light  rope  was 
attached  to  the  poles,  and  with  the  rope  as  a  collar  and  a 
pole  under  each  arm  a  man  could  haul  quite  a  load  over 
the  snow  where  a  sled  would  have  cut  in.  The  front 
edge  of  the  bark  was  rolled  up  sled  fashion,  and  by  fol- 
lowing the  stream  and  trail  it  was  mainly  a  down-hill 
haul,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  knolls.  When  all  was 
loaded  Antoine  went  his  way  over  his  line,  and  I  pointed 
to  each  load  and  then  to  Ah-se-bun  to  take  his  choice,  the 
hindquarters  and  skin  being  the  heaviest.  Which  do 
you  think  he  took? 


220  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

It  has  been  said  of  a  man  who  is  so  unfortunate  as  to 
have  to  carve  at  his  own  table:  "If  he  takes  the  best  cut 
for  himself  he's  a  durned  hog,  and  if  he  doesn't  he's  a 
durned  fool."  Now,  in  making  choice  of  loads — as  well 
as  in  some  other  things — I  will  bear  witness  that  my  red 
friend  was  not  a  "durned  fool."  There  was  a  sort  of 
straightforwardness  among  the  Indians  whom  I  met  that 
I've  never  been  able  to  acquire.  They  knew  what  they 
wanted,  and  they  went  for  it  without  being  hampered  by 
etiquette.  If  there  was  carving  to  be  done  they  could 
never  be  ranked  with  the  d.  f.'s,  and  when  the  choice  of 
loads  was  offered  I  got  "the  lion's  share."  With  more 
experience  in  the  ways  of  "Mr.  Lo,"  he  would  not  have 
been  offered  the  choice  of  loads;  at  the  the  risk  of  being 
thought  a  d.  h.  I  would  simply  pick  up  the  poles  of  the 
lighter  load,  leave  him  to  choose  the  other. 

It  was  quite  a  pull,  and  our  freight  had  to  be  un- 
loaded several  times  to  get  it  around  the  bad  places  on  an 
Indian  trail,  for  an  old  path  ran  along  this  stream  which 
somehow  was  indistinctly  visible  even  in  winter  by 
marks,  such  as  fallen  trees,  which  showed  where  they  had 
been  worn  by  being  stepped  upon  or  by  having  lodge 
poles  dragged  over  them,  clumps  of  bushes  which  had 
been  avoided,  and  the  many  things  which  an  observing 
eye  notes.  At  times  it  required  both  of  us  to  take  hold 
of  one  load,  and  lift  or  drag  it  over  or  around  an  obstruc- 
tion, and  then  do  the  same  with  the  other.  I  gave  my 
companion  frequent  opportunities  to  exchange,  but  he 
didn't  take  them.  I  was  too  polite  to  pick  up  his  poles, 
but  Antoine  said  afterward:  "By  gar!  Wen  you  want 
for  change  load,  you  mus'  change.  He  t'ink  you  big 
fool  w'en  he  gotta  da  light  one  all  a  tarn.  Nax  tarn  you 
tak-a  de  small  load.  He  lak-a  de  big  one  w'en  dat's  w'at 
he  got.  He  gotta  lak  heem." 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  221 

When  we  came  to  the  cabin  the  sun  was  well  past 
meridian.  Clocks  and  watches  had  been  left  far  behind 
us.  "We  took  no  note  of  time  save  by  its  flight."  Ah- 
se-bun,  the  Raccoon,  was  hungry.  What  does  half  a 
dozen  pounds  of  bear's  liver  eaten  in  the  morning  amount 
to  half  a  day  later,  after  hauling  part  of  a  bear  five  miles 
over  crusted  snow  that  often  had  a  sidelong  slope  toward 
the  stream,  and  over  a  crooked  and  log-barred  path?  I 
was  hungry  also,  but  had  never  got  into  the  Indian  habit 
of  eating  enough  in  one  day  to  last  for  three,  and  so  I 
started  in  to  get  dinner.  I  plucked  up  courage  and  told 
Lo  to  go  and  get  some  dry  wood.  He  pointed  to  a  pile 
in  the  corner  that  was  kept  for  such  an  emergency  as 
severe  weather,  and  intimated  that  there  was  plenty.  I 
was  tired,  hungry  and  cross,  and  just  in  the  humor  to  lay 
aside  all  notions  that  I  must  treat  an  Indian  as  a  gentle- 
man, and  I  then  put  away  the  bear  steak,  hung  up  the 
frying-pan  and  merely  said  "Nish-ish-shin"  (good)  and 
lighted  my  pipe  and  sat  down ;  in  other  words,  "I  struck." 
I  thought  it  out  something  like  this:  Here  was  a  lazy, 
gormandizing  Indian  who  came  and  went  at  pleasure, 
and  could  eat  as  much  as  four  hard-working  white  men 
and  then  sleep  for  a  week  after  it,  who  would  probably 
stay  by  me  as  long  as  the  bear  lasted  and  eat  the  greater 
part  of  it,  after  shirking  the  heaviest  load  on  me,  and 
now  he  was  too  lazy  to  get  wood  to  cook  his  dinner  be- 
cause there  were  a  few  sticks  in  the  cabin  which  were 
kept  for  bad  weather.  After  smoking  a  few  minutes  and 
feeling  no  less  angry  I  lay  down,  and  slept  as  only  a  tired 
man  can  sleep.  A  noise  awoke  me;  it  was  my  red  friend 
bringing  in  wood.  It  was  dark  outside;  he  had  thought 
the  matter  over,  and  had  concluded  that  he  wanted  to  get 
some  wood,  and  had  got  it.  This  was  comfortable  to  me, 
and  I  cooked  a  great  lot  of  bear  steaks,  baked  some 


222  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

bread  and  we  had  dinner.  He  cared  nothing  for  bread 
unless  soaked  with  fat,  but  the  amount  of  meat  he  could 
secrete  was  enormous.  It  is  surprising  what  an  amount 
of  animal  food  a  white  man  can  consume  in  the  clear, 
cold  winter  air  of  the  woods,  whether  in  Wisconsin, 
Maine  or  the  Adirondacks,  especially  if  he  is  running  a 
line  of  traps  or  hauling  half  a  bear  over  a  trail  that  is 
covered  with  crusted  snow,  but  an  Indian  can  discount 
him.  From  that  time  forward  I  had  no  fear  of  asserting 
myself,  and  of  bossing  the  ranch  when  our  guest  and  I 
were  left  alone.  I  dropped  all  my  civilized  notions  of 
etiquette  and  got  along  nicely.  This,  of  course,  does  not 
apply  to  Antoine,  for  he  and  I  vied  with  each  other  in 
doing  camp  work,  and  he  had  all  the  consideration  for  a 
companion  that  could  be  expected  of  a  man  who  had 
been  reared  among  different  surroundings;  but  for  an 
Indian  I  began  to  entertain  different  feelings.  I  under- 
stood and  appreciated  them  better  afterward,  but  just 
then  I  was  in  the  transition  state  of  being  disillusioned. 

When  Antoine  came,  two  days  later,  he  had  some 
skins,  and  a  woeful  tale  of  broken  dead-falls  and  of  traps 
carried  off.  Ah-se-bun  had  gone.  A  wolverine  had 
struck  Antoine's  line,  and  the  old  man  was  tired  and 
cross.  He  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands  before  the  fire, 
while  I  made  him  some  coffee  and  broiled  him  some 
venison  chops  on  a  grill  made  from  some  wire  we  had 
brought  for  tying  traps  or  other  purposes,  and  then  I 
fried  some  fish  in  bear  fat  and  set  out  the  tin  cups  and 
plates,  and  we  ate  in  silence.  It  was  a  good  dinner,  fit 
for  a  hard-working  trapper  who  had  come  in  tired  and 
angry  at  having  lost  the  fruits  of  his  labor.  I  would  not 
use  the  hackneyed  phrase,  "Fit  for  a  king,"  because  it 
was  too  good  for  most  of  the  kings  who  have  come  to 
my  notice — the  dinner  was  good  for  Antoine  and  for  me, 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  223 

two  American  kings  of  the  forest,  who  held  dominion 
over  all  the  beasts  and  exacted  tributes  of  fish,  flesh  and 
fur  from  them.  And  another  marauding  wolverine  was 
invading  our  realm! 

By  some  unwritten  law  my  stool  was  always  at  the 
left  of  the  fireplace  and  Antoine's  on  the  right.  The 
tobacco  bag  hung  on  my  side,  and  when  we  were  in  ex- 
ecutive session  it  was  my  duty  to  hand  out  "the  weed  of 
Ole  Virginny."  So  after  we  had  removed  our  stools 
from  the  table,  which  was  half  an  oak  log,  with  legs  set 
in  holes  made  by  an  inch  auger,  we  sat  down  in  our 
places,  and  I  handed  the  old  man  the  plug.  After  his 
pipe  was  filled  and  emptied  he  said:  "You  stop  here  till 
I  keel  de  dev'.  I  go  watch  for  heem.  My  trap  all  fix, 
all  right — he  come  to-night  an'  I  keel  a-heem,  he  keel 
a-me,  it  make  no  dif .  He  run  my  line  all  a-tam  an'  I  no 
git  heem;  he  break  all  our  trap  like  hell  a'most.  Gimme 
some  tobac." 

Tobacco  had  a  soothing  effect  on  Antoine,  as  it  has 
on  many  men,  and  a  second  pipe  quieted  his  anger,  but 
did  not  interfere  with  his  determination.  I  filled  his 
haversack  with  provisions,  and  with  blankets  and  snow- 
shoes  on  back  and  rifle  on  shoulder  he  started  on  his 
mission  of  revenge.  He  did  not  say  with  Shylock: 

"If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him." 

He  had  never  heard  of  Shylock,  but  he  had  in  his  heart 
all  the  revengeful  feeling  that  the  poor,  persecuted  Jew 
felt  for  his  enemies. 

It  was  well  along  toward  sundown  when  he  left,  and 
I  cleaned  up  our  table  and  got  in  the  night  wood,  and 
spent  the  evening  in  the  unpoetic  work  of  darning  my 
woollen  socks,  filling  the  box  in  the  stock  of  my  rifle  with 


224  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

greased  patches  of  proper  size,  putting  new  strings  on 
the  ear-laps  of  my  cap,  overhauling  my  mittens,  exam- 
ining suspenders  and  buttons,  and  doing  all  those  little 
things  which  men  wholly  cut  off  from  the  deft  hand  of 
woman  must  do  for  themselves  in  their  own  bungling 
way — or  have  a  breakdown  when  there  is  neither  time 
nor  opportunity  for  repairs.  It  is  wonderful  what  a  man 
can  do  when  thrown  on  his  own  resources,  when  there  is 
the  same  imperative  word  "must"  which  always  con- 
fronts the  soldier.  He  must,  or 

Rolling  up  in  my  blankets,  I  fully  expected  some 
adventure  or  visitation  before  morning,  but  nothing  hap- 
pened. Three  nights  passed  in  this  way.  I  fished,  cut 
firewood  and  busied  myself  with  other  things,  but  always 
with  a  thought  of  Antoine.  He  was  a  long  time  coming; 
perhaps  he  might  be  caught  in  the  bear  trap — there  was 
a  big  one  on  his  line — or  perhaps  he  might  be  crippled 
by  some  accident  and  be  starving!  He  did  not  come, 
and  these  thoughts  by  repetition  became  probabilities. 
I  filled  my  sack  with  provisions  and  shouldered  my  rifle. 
I  would  meet  him  on  the  back  track,  and  I  followed  his 
returning  trail  all  day  and  crossed  the  divide  between 
his  two  streams  and  crawled  into  his  camp  at  night.  His 
trail  was  plain,  although  I  had  never  been  over  it  before. 
He  had  rigged  a  sleeping  place  beside  a  huge  log,  and 
had  made  a  shelter  with  poles  and  brush.  A  bed  of 
leaves  was  inviting,  and  I  rolled  into  my  blankets  and 
slept  until  morning. 

He  had  not  left  the  trail  so  far — that  was  plain.  After 
breakfast  I  started  down  his  line  on  the  other  stream, 
and  after  a  few  miles  found  one  of  his  dead-falls  broken. 
Here  was  the  first  evidence  of  the  robber.  Further  on  I 
found  where  Antoine  had  left  the  trail  and  gone  off  to 
leeward,  and  had  made  himself  a  sort  of  breastwork  camp 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  225 

in  good  range  of  the  rear  of  a  trap,  and  on  examining  the 
latter  there  was  evidence  of  a  tussle  and  some  blood,  but 
about  an  inch  of  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  the 
affair  had  occurred  at  least  twenty-four  hours  before;  but 
Antoine  was  still  missing.  I  saw  where  he  had  left  the 
trail,  and  where  he  had  returned  to  it  one  hundred  yards 
below,  and  again  where  he  had  stepped  on  the  stones  in 
the  brook,  which  lead  a  long  way  down  as  well  as  across, 
and  I  took  the  trail  down  the  valley  home.  He  was  not 
there,  and  it  was  nearly  night  of  the  fourth  day.  He 
had  been  out  four  nights,  and  I  was  alarmed — perhaps 
"scared"  would  express  it  better.  Here  I  was  hundreds 
of  miles  in  the  wilderness  alone.  The  feeling  was  not 
entirely  one  of  selfish  helplessness  now.  I  could  care 
for  myself  fairly  well  in  the  woods,  and  did  not  mind  the 
solitude;  but  I  found  that  I  had  a  feeling  of  love  for  my 
companion  which  had  been  latent  and  only  brought  out 
by  his  long  absence,  which  it  seemed  must  be  caused  by 
some  accident.  I  ate  supper  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  for 
the  second  time  in  the  woods  I  was  tired,  but  not  sleepy. 

Morning  came.  I  cooked  enough  to  last  me  several 
days  on  a  trip  after  my  companion.  I  would  go  back  to 
the  stepping  stones  where  I  had  lost  the  trail,  and  find 
it.  Dead  or  alive,  I  must  know  where  Antoine  was. 
He  had  not  been  hurt  in  a  dead-fall,  that  was  sure,  for  I 
had  seen  them  all;  but,  if  living,  he  would  surely  have 
been  back  before  this.  I  slung  my  haversack  and 
blankets,  and  started  back  on  his  outgoing  trail,  deter- 
mined to  find  him  if  possible,  and  to  look  closer  along 
the  banks  of  the  stream,  where  the  new  snow  might  have 
covered  his  track  for  a  short  distance.  I  had  hardly  got 
one  hundred  yards  from  the  cabin  when  I  heard  Antoine 
call:  "Hello!  where  you  go  now?  Come  back  here;  I 
want  some  grub  for  to  heat.  You  run  'way  w'en  I  come 


226  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

lak  you  doan  want  a  see  me.  Wat  for  you  go  off  dat 
a-way?" 

He  had  come  in  on  my  branch  of  the  stream,  and  if  I 
had  got  out  of  sight  or  hearing  before  he  arrived  there 
would  have  been  a  long  and  useless  tramp  for  me — and 
perhaps  one  for  him  to  find  me.  Who  knows  but  we 
both  might  still  be  going  the  rounds  in  the  wilds  of  Wis- 
consin on  each  other's  trails?  I  made  him  hot  coffee, 
while  he  unslung  his  pack  and  washed,  and  then  it  was 
good  to  see  the  old  man  "heat."  Slices  of  cold  boiled 
bear  ham,  hot  broiled  venison  steak,  tin  cups  of  coffee, 
and  more  bread  than  I  dare  tell,  went  in  quantities,  and 
it  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  pulled  his  stool  to  the  fire 
and  said:  "Gimme  dat  tobac'." 

It  took  three  pipefuls  before  he  felt  like  talking,  and 
then,  seeing  that  I  betrayed  no  curiosity,  he  said:  "I  got 
dat  ole  dev',"  and  then  paused.  I  knew  him  too  well  to 
make  any  reply  or  ask  a  question.  He  had  taken  his 
first  liking  to  me  because  I  had  happened  to  betray  no 
curiosity,  and  I  knew  that  if  he  was  questioned  he  would 
give  short  answers;  but  if  let  alone  he  would  tell  it  all  in 
his  own  way,  and  be  anxious  to  do  it.  His  pack  of  skins 
lay  on  the  floor  unopened.  I  sat  and  looked  at  the  fire, 
for  I  could  not  smoke  as  much  as  he,  and  when  the  spirit 
again  moved  him  he  said:  "I  got  hees  skin  dere  in  de 
pack;  w'en  I  hopen  it  you  see  heem.  He  make  me  hard 
run  all-a  night  after  I  break  his  laig  f'um  where  I  hide 
by  my  trap,  an'  it  was  his  front  laig;  so  he  go  'long  good, 
an*  I'll  run  all  de  night  w'en  I  can  see  heem  or  hees 
track,  an'  I  shoot-a  heem  t'ree  time  on  a  run  an'  I  no  hit 
heem.  W'en  day  come  I  see  da  track  plain,  an'  I  stop 
for  res'  an  heat  my  grub.  Ole  Carcajou  he  no  lak-a  day- 
tarn  for  be  hout,  an'  I  t'ink  me  he  fin'  some  hole  for  lay 
hup  in.  So  I  go  'long  slow  for  give  heem  tam  to  fin' 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  227 

hole,  an'  he  go  all-a  day  'way  off  to  nor'eas'  lak  he  go 
to-a  Wiscons'  Riv'.  Nex'  night  I  fin'  hees  hole,  an'  I 
make  fire  an'  sleep  by  heem.  Mornin'  I  see  it  was  all  a 
rock  an'  not  hees  deep  hole  in  a  groun'  for  to  have  to 
smoke  heem  hout;  so  I  pull  some  rock  down  and  see 
heem,  an'  he  growl,  an'  I  shoot.  He  was  too  much  tire 
to  go  on  to  fin'  deepes'  hole.  I'll  tole  you,  hees  skeen 
a'n't  wort'  much,  but  w'en  I  no  getta  heem  we  no  do 
more  trap  in  dis  part.  Dat  was  good  hunt.  Wat  you 
say,  hey?" 

That  was  a  long  story  for  Antoine,  but  he  felt  proud 
that  his  enemy's  hide  was  in  his  pack;  for  this  wolverine, 
sometimes  called  "glutton,"  seems  to  take  delight  in  de- 
stroying traps,  or  in  befouling  the  bait  if  he  does  not  care 
to  eat  it,  and  the  trapper  who  finds  one  on  his  range  must 
kill  it  or  go  elsewhere.  It  is  very  cunning  and  has  great 
strength — a  combination  of  bear  and  fox — and  is  well 
characterized  by  Antoine  as  "de  ole  dev'."  The  skin 
has  some  value  for  robes  and  rugs,  but  to  the  trapper 
whose  line  it  has  discovered  its  hide  has  a  greater  value 
than  any  fur  dealer  would  give  for  it — a  hundred  times 
more. 

When  Antoine  unrolled  his  pack  he  had  a  lot  of  skins, 
mainly  from  one  of  my  lines,  which  he  had  come  down. 
In  the  lot  was  a  silver  fox,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen,  and 
several  pelts  of  the  white  weasel,  which  we  call  "ermine." 
It  was  my  turn  next  day,  but  as  one  of  my  lines  had  been 
recently  run  by  my  partner  the  work  was  light,  because 
there  were  few  traps  to  reset. 

In  the  morning  I  thought  to  make  a  quick  run,  and, 
as  there  was  only  a  couple  of  inches  of  snow  on  top  of  the 
hard  crust,  I  left  my  snowshoes  in  the  cabin,  but  An- 
toine called  me  back,  saying:  "I'll  tole  you,  w'en  I'll  see 
da  ring  on  da  moon  las'  night  we  go  gat  some  snow 


228  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

bambye,  and  you'll  want  some  ah-gim  for  walk  home. 
I'll  tole  you."  So  I  went  back,  and  slung  my  snow- 
shoes  and  started  again. 

About  a  mile  from  camp  a  fox  had  killed  a  rabbit,  and 
left  the  story  of  the  tragedy  recorded  in  the  snow.  There 
was  the  track  of  the  rabbit,  with  its  three  holes  in  the 
snow  made  at  each  jump,  but  as  the  leaps  were  only  one 
and  a  half  feet  apart  it  was  evident  that  it  was  not  fright- 
ened. The  ambush  of  the  fox  was  plain  where  it  had 
crouched  in  the  snow,  and  the  hole  scooped  out  where  it 
had  struck  its  prey;  and  then  the  single  line  of  footprints 
where  it  had  trotted  off  with  the  rabbit,  all  the  feet  set  in 
one  straight  line,  fox  fashion. 

I  amused  myself  in  picturing  the  midnight  scene  by 
the  evidence  of  the  snow,  and  went  on  to  the  first  trap. 
It  was  a  strong  double-spring  steel  trap  set  under  a  log 
in  a  place  which  a  mink  or  fisher  would  be  likely  to  take 
on  its  way  to  or  from  the  creek.  The  snow  had  drifted 
lightly  over  the  pan,  concealing  it,  and  in  the  trap  was 
the  foreleg  of  a  fox  and  a  rabbit  lay  near  it.  Here  was 
another  story  of  the  woods,  briefly  told.  I  reset  the  trap, 
smeared  rabbit  blood  about  it,  took  the  rabbit  for  bait  for 
other  traps  and  went  on.  About  noon  it  began  to  snow, 
and  I  ran  the  rest  of  the  line  in  haste,  taking  out  a  mink 
or  a  fisher,  resetting  traps  and  rebaiting  some,  and 
pushed  on  for  my  old  resting  place.  I  had  improved  my 
first  night's  camp  with  poles  and  bark,  and  now  had  a 
good,  warm  shelter,  free  from  snow,  which  now  came 
thick  and  fast.  Antoine  was  right.  If  the  storm  kept  up 
all  night  no  man  could  move  next  day  without  ah-gim  on 
his  feet,  and  I  thought  myself  in  luck.  The  intense  still- 
ness of  a  snowstorm  we  have  all  noticed.  How  every 
sound  is  muffled,  and  all  Nature  seems  hushed  by  its 
white  mantle! 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  229 

"Lo!  sifted  through  the  winds  that  blow, 
Down  comes  the  soft  and  silent  snow, 
White  petals  from  the  flowers  that  grow 

In  the  cold  atmosphere. 
These  starry  blossoms,  pure  and  white, 
Soft  falling,  falling,  through  the  night, 

Have  draped  the  woods  and  mere." 

The  night  was  grand  for  sleeping,  for  it  is  never  very 
cold  when  the  snow  comes  in  big  flakes,  and  the  morn 
was  also  grand.  The  snow  had  ceased  falling,  and  the 
air  was  bright  and  clear.  The  same  silence  brooded 
over  the  woods,  and  was  only  emphasized  by  the  tapping 
of  a  woodpecker  or  the  hoarse  croak  of  a  raven.  I  would 
cross  the  divide  and  run  the  line  down  the  other  stream 
after  all,  for  it  only  meant  a  few  more  miles,  and  then 
the  week's  work  was  done.  It  was  in  heavy  timber  all 
the  way;  my  old  trail  was  hidden,  but  I  knew  the  bear- 
ings, and  had  only  to  keep  the  sun  on  my  right  until  I 
struck  the  stream,  and  then  follow  it  eastward.  After 
breakfast  I  started.  The  sun  was  bright  and  dazzling — 
too  much  so  for  comfort.  The  traps  were  under  twenty 
inches  of  snow,  and  I  dug  most  of  them  out  with  a  snow- 
shoe  and  got  a  few  skins  and  set  things  in  shape  as  well 
as  possible.  When  I  stopped  for  a  noon  lunch  my  eyes 
were  so  inflamed  that  they  were  painful.  My  soft  cap 
was  pulled  down  in  front,  and  I  went  on  in  the  bright 
sunshine  and  the  drip  of  the  trees,  using  one  eye  at  a 
time,  until  I  could  no  longer  see.  I  could  not  be  more 
than  two  miles  from  home,  but  could  not  avoid  logs  or 
choose  my  steps,  and  I  was  in  despair.  I  shot  off  my 
rifle  and  yelled.  Surely  Antoine  should  hear  a  shot  that 
distance  in  such  clear  weather.  I  shot  again  and  again, 
perhaps  a  dozen  times,  and  then  I  heard  an  answering 
shot  down  the  valley.  My  eyes  were  streaming,  and  I 


230  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

could  not  have  gone  a  rod  further.  It  seemed  hours 
before  I  heard  Antoine's  inquiring  yell,  and  then  he 
found  me. 

"So  you  gone  snow  blin',  hey?  Why,  you  don'  take 
some  sof  inside  bark,  an'  make  some  spectacle  an'  make 
leetly  hole  in  him  w'en  de  ole  sun  come  on  a  snow,  hey?" 

"Oh,  Antoine,  get  me  into  camp!  My  eyes  are 
ruined,  and  I'll  never  see  again !  I  felt  'em  getting  weak 
and  sore,  but  never  thought  I'd  get  stone  blind;  but 
maybe  if  I  get  a  chance  to  rest  I'll  come  out  all  right." 

"Yes,  you  com-a  all  right.  I  t'ink  you  was  got  ketch 
in  dead-fall,  or  got  into  some  hole  an'  break  you  laig 
w'en  I  hear  you  shoot  nine  or  'leven  tarn.  Gimme  you' 
pack  an'  you'  gun,  an'  keep  hoi'  dis  string  an'  come  'long 
o'  me.  Dat  snow  blin'  make  no  dif  w'en  you  keep  in 
camp  ten  day.  Come  'long." 

And  so  he  towed  me  into  camp  by  a  string,  stopping 
and  helping  me  over  a  fallen  tree  or  other  bad  place,  for 
he  had  bandaged  my  eyes  and  all  was  dark.  When  we 
reached  the  cabin  he  sat  one  of  the  wooden  troughs, 
which  his  handy  axe  had  made,  by  me  and  told  me  to 
bathe  my  eyes  with  the  cool  and  soft  snow  water  it  con- 
tained, and  not  to  look  at  the  fire  or  anything  else.  A 
fever  came  on,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  perfectly  helpless  in  a  wilderness. 
Coming  into  it  in  the  full  strength  of  youth  and  health, 
no  idea  of  anything  that  could  disable  me  ever  came  to 
mind.  Here  I  was,  laid  up  and  despondent.  There  was 
no  belief  that  youth  and  an  iron  constitution  were  suf- 
ficient to  cure  my  ills ;  all  I  knew  was  that  I  was  a  wreck 
and  a  hindrance  to  my  partner. 

"I'll  tole  you  dat  make  no  dif,"  said  Antoine;  "you 
doan  min'  a-me;  keep-a  still.  I'll  get  some  bark  an'  stop 
dat  feve',  an'  you  come  'long  all  rite.  I'll  tole  you,  you 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  231 

lie  down  an'  doan  min'  noding.  Keep-a  eye  shut — dat 
snow  blin'  he  make  no  dif';  I'll  tole  you  he'll  be  all  right 
in  ten  day." 

This  was  consoling,  and  might  be  true.  Antoine 
cared  for  me  like  a  mother.  He  steeped  some  bark — per- 
haps white  oak,  I  knew  at  the  time — and  my  fever  left  me 
in  a  few  days,  but  my  eyes  could  not  even  bear  the  fire 
light.  Ah-se-bun  came  into  the  cabin.  He  was  hungry, 
as  usual,  for  I  never  saw  an  Indian  that  wasn't,  and  after 
filling  himself  with  bear  meat  he  rested,  and  Antoine 
said:  "Ole  Miss'r  'Coon, he  says  he  stay  here  an'  take  care 
you,  an'  I'll  run  my  trap.  Ba  gosh,  day  hain't  been  run  in 
long  tarn,  I'll  guess.  I'll  tole  you  der  is  plenty  for  heat, 
and  Miss'r  'Coon,  he  mus'  cook  w'en  he  got  hunger.  All 
you  got  for  do  is  keep-a  eye  shut  an'  wash  heem  in  snow 
water.  I'll  be  back  in  free  day,  an'  here  is  plenty  for 
heat,  an'  you  eye  he  make  no  dif;  he  come  good  w'en 
you  doan'  go  on  de  snow." 

The  Ojibway  tongue  had  seemed  very  easy  to  use  with 
Antoine,  who  could  translate  what  I  did  not  understand. 
It  seemed  to  be  merely  to  learn  another  name  for  a  thing, 
and  I  had  only  learned  some  nouns.  To  talk  with  a 
native  was  another  thing.  Ah-se-bun  wanted  the  axe 
and  came  to  me  and  said:  "Au-gua-kwet?"  I  answered: 
"Au-gua-kwet  is  over  behind  the  pa-que-shi-gun,"  but  in 
my  mixture  of  English  he  failed  to  understand  the  last 
word  to  mean  wheat  flour,  bread  or  anything  else.  That 
kind  of  talk  did  first  rate  with  Antoine,  but  the  Raccoon 
did  not  understand  his  own  language.  That  was  very 
queer. 

The  light  in  the  cabin  was  very  dim  when  the  fire  was 
not  bright,  for  our  "windows"  consisted  of  two  holes,  one 
in  the  door  and  one  opposite,  over  which  were  stretched 
the  dried  "caul,"  or  what  surgeons  know  as  the  periton- 


232  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

eum,  of  a  deer.  When  the  fire  was  not  bright  this  gave 
"a  dim,  religious  light/'  such  as  steals  into  some  silent 
crypt  through  stained  glass  in  an  old  cathedral,  and  my 
eyes  improved  daily.  After  some  days  I  could  get  about 
the  room  and  do  a  few  things,  such  as  washing  out  my 
rifle  and  oiling  it,  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  see  the  Indian 
eat  and  sleep.  He  would  rouse  up  and  get  wood  to 
cook.  The  provisions  were  unlimited,  as  part  of  the  bear 
was  left,  and  Antoine  had  buried  a  deer  in  the  snow.  So 
it  was  a  picnic  for  our  friend,  and  he  did  not  even  have 
to  hunt  nor  fish. 

When  Antoine  came  he  whittled  a  huge  pair  of  spec- 
tacles for  me  out  of  dry  spruce.  They  were  solid  except 
a  small  longitudinal  slit  for  each  eye,  through  which  one 
could  see  all  that  was  necessary,  and  all  lights  from  points 
outside  the  range  of  vision  were  excluded.  They  were 
fitted  to  my  eyes  with  exactness,  and  where  glasses 
would  be  in  ordinary  spectacles  there  were  hollows 
which  were  blackened  with  charcoal,  and  with  these  I 
could  venture  out  even  in  strong  sunlight,  and  next  day 
I  ran  my  line  of  traps  with  them,  seeing  perfectly  every- 
thing that  I  wished  to  see,  unharmed  by  the  light  of  the 
snow.  The  only  unusual  event  on  this  trip  was  seeing 
where  several  deer  had  crossed  my  trail  on  the  jump, 
followed  by  some  wolves,  as  shown  in  the  snow.  As  the 
deer  were  yarded  up  during  such  deep  snow,  the  wolves 
must  have  stampeded  some  of  them;  but  we  had  not  seen 
nor  heard  a  wolf  in  our  part  of  the  woods  all  winter. 

Returning  to  the  cabin  the  day  afterward,  Antoine 
said:  "I'll  tole  you,  Chris'mas  he  come  to-morrow,  and 
we  stop  home  an'  heat  good  Chris'mas  dinner;  what  you 
say,  hey?"  and  he  showed  me  where  he  had  kept  a  record 
of  the  days  on  a  stick.  I  had  not  given  a  thought  to  the 
matter  further  than  to  note  that  it  was  midwinter  by  the 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  233 

sun  being  at  its  southern  limit,  but  my  partner  was  a 
more  devout  man,  and  told  his  beads  at  proper  times, 
kept  count  of  the  days,  and  knew  that  this  was  Christmas 
Eve.  And  so  it  was  settled  that  we  should  not  hunt  nor 
fish  on  the  morrow,  but  would  observe  the  day  in  a 
civilized  manner,  just  as  the  folks  at  home  were  doing. 
Antoine  had  hung  some  evergreens  over  the  fireplace 
and  over  the  bed,  and  with  thoughts  of  those  at  home  we 
crawled  under  our  blankets,  and  morning  came. 


ANTOINE   GARDAPEE. 

CANTO    III. — CHRISTMAS    IN    THE    FOREST. 

THE  Christmas  sun  was  not  too  bright  for  a  winter 
day,  and  there  was  no  wind.  I  was  roused  by 
the  loud  tapping  of  the  great  northern  wood- 
pecker on  one  of  the  logs  of  our  house.  This  large  bird 
is  almost  extinct  to-day,  and  few  young  men  have  seen 
it  alive.  Its  length  was  eighteen  inches,  and  its  tappings 
were  in  proportion.  Antoine  had  been  up  some  time, 
and  was  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  fire,  for  he  was  one  of 
those  who  can  smoke  before  breakfast.  When  he  saw 
me  up  he  rose,  and  with  a  hearty  shake  said:  "Merry 
C'ris'mas;  I'll  hope  you'll  be  all  well/'  and  he  prepared 
the  breakfast.  As  I  went  to  the  spring  to  wash  I  looked 
at  my  unshaven  face  in  its  glassy  surface,  and  wondered 
what  the  good  people  at  home  would  say  if  such  an  ap- 
parition should  walk  in  on  them,  for  we  had  no  razors 
nor  mirrors,  and  had  been  all  winter  in  the  wilds  of  Wis- 
consin, with  only  an  occasional  Indian  visitor  to  look 
at  us. 

The  spring  near  our  cabin  was  the  head  of  a  bit  of 
marshy  ground  which  was  so  filled  with  springs  that  it 
never  froze  nor  was  even  covered  with  snow,  as  it  soon 
melted  and  drained  off  into  a  tributary  of  the  Bad  Ax. 
But  on  this  Christmas  morning  of  1855  there  was  a  wood- 
cock feeding  in  that  marsh.  I  saw  it  plainly,  flushed  it, 
and  know  that  it  was  a  woodcock.  Those  who  have  fol- 
lowed these  sketches  will  credit  me  with  knowing  this 
bird  when  I  see  it.  Why  it  was  there  is  a  question.  It 
could  fly  well. 

After  breakfast,  and  the  meditative  smoking  which 

234 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  235 

seemed  part  of  Antoine's  religion,  I  thought  of  fleshing 
some  skins,  but  Antoine  said:  "Let  da  skin  res'  to-day; 
all  res',  all  man  he  res'  on  C'ris'mas;  you  doan'  do  no 
work  w'en  he  come  in  you'  home;  no,  sare,  you  doan'  do 
not'ing  but  res',  all  a  peep'  da  res'.  Wat  you  say,  hey?" 

"I  say  that  I  can't  sit  by  this  fire  all  day  just  because 
it's  Christmas;  I  wouldn't  sit  down  that  way  if  I  was 
home  among  my  people;  I'd  walk  around,  and  if  I'd  been 
at  hard  work  all  the  week  I  might  go  and  spear  eels 
through  the  ice.  A  live  man  can't  sit  like  a  lump  on  a 
log  all  day.  There's  no  place  to  go  here,  and  these  last 
skins  want  fleshing  and  I  want  something  to  do,  that's 
all." 

"You  go  spear  da  heel  on  C'ris'mas,  hey?  Well,  he's 
all  right  in  da  hafternoon,  but  I  go  in  da  church  on  a 
C'ris'mas  mornin',  and  mebbe  I'll  got  drunk  in  a  hafter- 
noon; I'll  doan'  work  on  no  ole  skin  an'  I'll  doan'  spear 
no  heel;  on'y  res'." 

"Do  you  ever  go  to  church  any  other  day  in  the  year, 
Antoine?  I'll  bet  fifty  mink  skins  you  don't,  and  the 
chances  are  that  you  go  to  a  dance  on  Christmas  Eve 
and  sleep  all  the  next  morning  and  don't  get  to  church 
at  all." 

"Wat  you  talk?  Did  you  say  some  prayer  w'en  you 
got  hup  dis  mornin?  No!  I'll  bet  nine  or  'leven  mink 
you  ha'n't  said  prayer  all  da  wint'.  I'll  count  all  a-my 
bead  'fore  you'll  git  hup.  I'll  tole  you  I'll  got  s'prise  wot 
make  you'  eye  bung  hout.  Dat  make  no  dif  w'en  I'll  go 
in  da  church,  I'll  show  you  some  C'ris'mas  dinna  till  you 
bu'st  you'  belt,  you  bet.  I'll  been  look  hout  all-a  wint' 
for  see  da  day  come  w'en  we  res'  an'  heat  jess  lak'  da 
peep'  way  down  da  riv'  by  Potosi." 

Our  food  had  been  simple,  but  always  in  plenty.  Ven- 
ison, 'coon,  bear,  rabbit,  partridge  and  fish  prepared  in 


236  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

several  ways,  as  boiled,  fried,  broiled  or  roasted;  and  we 
had  good  bread,  coffee,  sugar  and  an  occasional  bean 
soup.  The  fat  of  the  bear  and  the  'coon  was  as  good  as 
lard,  and  often  our  stale  bread  was  soaked  and  fried.  So 
we  had  a  good  substitute  for  butter  and  lard,  and  the  only 
thing  that  might  have  been  lacking  was  the  potato,  which 
would  be  difficult  to  keep,  and  was  too  bulky  to  carry. 
Surely  this  was  good  living  for  healthy  men  in  a  wilder- 
ness in  winter.  But  from  hints  which  Antoine  dropped 
from  time  to  time  this  profusion  might  not  last.  This 
was  the  first  idle  day  of  the  winter,  and  as  my  partner  had 
intimated  that  he  was  going  to  surprise  me  with  a  Christ- 
mas dinner  I  left  him  to  arrange  it,  and  wandered  out 
with  my  snowshoes  and  snow-blinders. 

Heretofore  I  had  always  gone  up  the  several  little 
streams  which  formed  the  east  and  west  branches  of  the 
Bad  Ax  River,  where  our  traps  were  set.  To-day  I 
would  go  down  the  stream,  which  I  had  not  seen  since 
we  brought  our  provisions  up  its  valley  in  the  fall.  I 
had  gone  about  about  two  miles  when  a  log  invited  me 
to  rest.  The  winter  landscape  was  beautiful;  the  bluish 
tints  of  the  twigs  against  the  sky  and  along  the  stream 
relieved  the  whiteness,  and  the  day  was  perfect.  A  rabbit 
came  slowly  jumping  along,  and  passed  within  twenty 
feet  of  my  log,  and  soon  a  fox  appeared  following  its 
track,  but  took  the  alarm  at  several  times  twenty  feet  and 
trotted  off  over  the  hill,  with  an  occasional  glance  over  his 
shoulder  to  make  sure  that  the  man  on  the  log  was  not 
following.  I  fell  to  thinking  how  animals  differ,  just  as 
men  do — one  dull  and  unperceiving,  and  another  alert 
and  watchful.  A  child  could  have  shot  the  rabbit,  but 
only  a  rifleman  could  have  touched  reynard. 

Then  came  a  thought  that  food  might  be  scarce  with 
us,  as  what  Antoine  had  said  was  recalled.  As  I  under- 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  237 

stood  the  case,  the  deer  were  in  "yards/5  where  they  had 
trampled  the  snow  so  that  the  crust  did  not  cut  their  legs, 
and  as  they  could  not  forage  far  they  were  getting  poor. 
And  these  yards  were  some  distance  off,  so  that  a  special 
trip  of  twenty  miles  or  more  would  have  to  be  made  to 
get  venison.  Bears  had  gone  into  winter  quarters,  and 
would  not  stir  out  for  a  couple  of  months.  Partridges 
found  food  scarce,  were  poor,  and  were  eating  bitter 
buds,  which  made  them  unpalatable.  'Coons  were  laid 
up,  like  the  bears,  and  there  was  a  prospect  of  scant  ra- 
tions. Antoine  said  that  some  trappers  ate  the  flesh  of 
the  pine  marten,  or  sable,  and  the  related  species  called 
pekan,  fisher,  black  cat,  etc.;  but  Antoine  wouldn't  eat 
them,  and  very  naturally  I  refused  them.  I  should  think 
that  a  man  would  have  to  be  very  hungry  to  eat  any  of 
the  tribe  to  which  the  mink  and  weasel  belong.  We  do 
not  care  to  eat  the  animals  whose  diet  is  exclusively  flesh 
— such  as  the  cats  and  dogs — whether  we  call  them  tigers 
or  wolves,  but  the  deer  and  the  sheep  are  vegetarians, 
while  the  bear  and  the  hog  eat  similar  food,  and  we  eat 
them.  It  looked  as  though  we  must  live  on  rabbit  and 
our  present  store  of  venison  and  bear  the  rest  of  the  win- 
ter, and  rabbits  were  not  plenty. 

While  engaged  in  such  thoughts  a  gray  squirrel  came 
in  sight,  and  I  watched  it  run  up  a  tree  and  jump  into 
another,  and  then  it  stopped  at  a  hole  in  a  tall  tree  and 
seemed  to  want  to  enter  it,  and  then  appeared  afraid  and 
would  draw  back  and  then  peer  in  again.  The  tree  was 
an  oak,  and  the  hole  was  small,  like  a  woodpecker's.  I 
noted  that  the  bark  on  it  was  torn,  and  as  the  sun  was 
high  I  went  back  home. 

"Hello!"  said  Antoine,  "I'll  t'ink  you  go  got  los',  an' 
I  mus'  heat  a  C'ris'mas  din'  all  'lone.  Jess  in  tarn,  an* 
glad  for  see  you!  Bon  jour!" 


238  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

We  shook  hands  like  old  friends  long  parted,  and  he 
motioned  me  to  my  seat  at  table  with  courtly  grace,  and 
it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  I  was,  for  this  occasion, 
not  his  partner,  but  his  guest.  He  had  prepared  the  din- 
ner alone,  as  he  had  intimated  he  would,  and  he  was  host, 
chef,  garcon  and  companion  all  in  one  on  this  Christmas 
Day  in  the  wilds  of  Wisconsin.  The  first  course  was  a 
soup  of  deer  shanks  with  the  marrow-bones  cracked;  but 
I  will  try  to  put  that  memorable  dinner  in  the  shape  that 
some  chef  of  to-day  would  put  it,  when  it  would  be  like 
this,  with  my  translation: 

MENU. 

POTAGE. 

Consomme  du  bois.     (Deer  shank  soup.) 

POISSON. 
Saumon  du  font,  au  naturel.     (Brook  trout  fried.) 

RELEVE. 

Tranches  d'agneau  montebello.    (Venison  steak,  sweet  sauce.) 
Aqua  pura.     (Bad  Ax  water.) 

ENTREES. 

Poularde  a  la  chevreuse.    (Boiled  partridge.) 

Haricots.     (Baked  beans.) 

Vin  du  Bad  Ax. 

ENTREMETS   DE   DOUCEUR. 

Pouding  de  ris  au  fruites.     (Rice  pudding  with  raisins.) 
Cafe.    Tobac. 

Now  I  ask  you — I  mean  you  sportsmen,  old  and 
young — how  does  that  seem  to  you  for  a  Christmas  din- 
ner either  in  the  woods  or  in  the  wildest  restaurants  of 
New  York  city? 

Most  of  these  things  we  had  cooked  in  one  shape  or 
another,  but  never  such  a  lay-out  as  that  at  one  feed. 
The  great  surprise  came  with  the  rice  pudding  with 
raisins,  for  I  had  no  idea  that  these  things  were  in  camp; 
but  Antoine  had  smuggled  a  handful  of  rice  and  a  few 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  239 

raisins  among  the  things  bought  at  Prairie  du  Chien  for 
just  such  a  treat,  and  the  old  man  enjoyed  my  surprise. 
The  whole  dinner  was  a  surprise,  for  that  matter;  but  the 
rice  and  raisins — well,  they  more  than  filled  the  bill.  The 
"tobac"  was  burned  by  the  fire,  and  after  such  a  gorge 
we  laid  ourselves  down  and  slept  until  dark. 

We  were  awakened  by  the  entrance  of  Ah-se-bun,  the 
Raccoon,  who  accepted  the  invitation  to  dinner,  and  he 
not  only  cleaned  up  what  we  had  left,  but  he  put  a  polish 
on  every  bone  until  he  could  work  no  more.  There  was 
a  big  lot  of  the  rice  pudding  left,  but  when  he  finished 
the  last  of  it  he  grunted,  "Nish-ish-shin,"  and  curled  up 
to  sleep. 

As  Antoine  and  I  sat  by  the  fire  while  the  Indian 
snored  I  told  him  about  the  oak  tree  and  the  squirrel 
which  I  had  seen  in  the  morning.  I  might  not  have 
thought  of  it  again  but  for  the  fact  that  the  tree  was  so 
scarred,  as  by  some  large  animal  climbing  it. 

"Ba  gar,"  said  he,  "ole  pard,  I'll  tole  you  what. 
Shake !  You  done  foun'  a  bee  tree  an'  we  got  da  honey. 
Whoop !  I'll  tole  you  we'll  got  no  bear  meat  no  mo'  w'en 
de  las'  one  he  all  heat  up,  an'  da  deer  he  all  in  da  yard 
an'  poor,  I'll  tole  you  da  honey  he  come  in  good  an'  I'll 
cut  da  bee  tree  w'en  da  day  come.  You  do  good  t'ing 
w'en  you  go  down  da  riv'.  Shake!" 

I  was  curious  to  know  why  Ah-se-bun  was  the  only 
Indian  who  visited  us  except  the  party  which  once  came 
with  him,  and  why  he  seemed  to  be  wandering  up  and 
down,  and  never  carried  a  gun.  Antoine  told  me  that 
there  was  an  encampment  of  Indians  about  150  miles 
north  on  the  Flambeau  River,  a  branch  of  the  Chippewa ; 
another  some  sixty  miles  due  east  on  the  Wisconsin 
River,  and  a  third  one  thirty  miles  southeast  on  the  same 
stream.  Our  friend  was  a  sort  of  messenger  between 


240  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

the  three  camps,  and  our  cabin  was  a  convenient  point 
for  him  to  stop,  eat  and  rest.  As  Antoine  put  it,  our 
guest  did  not  carry  a  rifle  because  he  always  started  with 
some  "grub,"  but  would  prefer  to  go  hungry  for  a  few 
days,  if  necessary,  to  carrying  a  rifle  and  such  game  as 
he  might  kill.  Then  it  was  all  plain.  Ah-se-bun  could 
go  hungry  for  two  or  three  days,  eat  enough  to  last  a 
week  and  go  on,  and  he  was  too  lazy  to  hunt  and  carry 
his  gun  and  game.  Afterward  I  learned  that  he  was  not 
peculiar  in  all  this,  but  that  they  were  the  common  traits 
of  his  race.  As  near  as  I  can  make  out  from  the  map  of 
Wisconsin  in  a  school  atlas  of  to-day  we  were  on  the  fork 
of  the  Bad  Ax  River  in  what  is  now  Vernon  county,  and 
just  north  of  Readstown;  but  there  was  no  town,  village 
or  settlement  on  the  river  that  we  saw  or  heard  of  when 
we  went  up  it  in  1855.  At  any  rate,  we  were  near  the 
main  forks  of  the  river,  and  our  cabin  was  between  the 
streams. 

Our  Christmas  festival  was  ended.  The  morrow 
would  bring  the  regular  routine  work,  only  varied  by  the 
conditions  of  weather. 

"We  ring  the  bells  and  we  raise  the  strain, 
We  hang  up  garlands  ev'rywhere 
And  bid  the  tapers  twinkle  fair, 
And  feast  and  frolic — and  then  we  go 
Back  to  the  same  old  lives  again." 

It  was  a  happy  Christmas,  because  all  our  simple 
wants  were  filled.  We  were  warm  and  well  fed;  every 
wish  had  been  gratified  as  far  as  we  had  wishes,  for  we 
could  say  with  Biron,  in  "Love's  Labor's  Lost:" 

"At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose 

Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows." 

And  so  with  minds  at  peace  and  bodies  prepared  for 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  24-1 

rest  we  stepped  over  the  sleeping  Indian  by  the  fire  and 
crawled  into  our  own  blankets,  and  if  there  were  any 
visions  they  were  of  the  loved  ones  at  home. 

In  the  morning  Antoine  used  a  file  on  his  axe  while  I 
prepared  the  breakfast,  and  then  Ah-se-bun  went  down 
the  stream  with  us  as  far  as  the  bee  tree,  and  continued 
his  journey  without  even  a  goodby  grunt  or  the  slightest 
expression  of  interest  in  our  work.  This  sort  of  thing 
had  ceased  to  exasperate  me,  and  I  was  getting  used  to 
what  Antoine  termed  "Injun  unpoliteness,"  for  said  he: 
"Dem  Injun  he  t'ink  it  smart  to  be  unpolite,  but  he  lak 
you  an'  he  doan  lak  you,  an'  he  doan  tole  you  how  much. 
Hit  make  no  dif.  Ole  Ah-se-bun,  he  say,  'Kego-e-kay 
nish-ish-shin,'  an'  he  mean  you  good  man." 

"That  may  be  all  right,  Antoine;  but  when  the  hun- 
gry cuss  comes  into  camp  he  is  polite,  and  gives  us 
the  bon  four,  which  he  learned  from  your  people;  but 
when  he's  got  his  belly  full  he  goes  off,  and  never  gives 
us  a  grunt — which  is  the  salutation  of  his  people.  It 
may  be  all  right,  but  I  don't  like  it.  Your  people  and 
mine  give  as  warm  a  shake  at  parting  as  they  do  at  meet- 
ing, and  when  we  have  been  entertained  we  say  'goodby/ 
if  no  more." 

"Wen  you  know  Injun  better  you  fine  heem  hout 
more,  an'  you  doan  mind.  You  know  w'at  make  da 
scratch  all-a  bark  f'um  da  bee  tree  an'  roun  da  hole?  I'll 
tole  you.  He's  a  bear,  an'  he'll  clam  hup  for  getta  da 
hun'  an'  fine  da  hole  too  small.  Da  bee  he  on'y  come  las' 
year,  'cause  da  bark  on'y  scratch  hoff  dis  a-wint'." 

Antoine  cut  down  the  big  oak  without  help.  I  was 
fully  as  strong  as  he  was,  but  when  it  came  to  handling 
an  axe  my  wild  blows  counted  but  little,  while  not  one  of 
his  was  wasted.  I  could  strike  once  in  a  place,  but  An- 
toine's  stump  was  a  level  one;  and  the  tree,  if  straight, 


242  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

would  be  weakened  to  the  proper  point  on  the  side  he 
wished  it  to  fall  before  the  other  side  was  touched.  An 
expert  axeman  is  a  mechanic  in  a  broad  sense.  I  never 
was  an  expert  with  the  axe  like  Gladstone,  Len  Jewell, 
Antoine  and  other  great  men. 

The  great  oak  fell,  and  limbs  which  kept  the  trunk 
from  the  ground  were  cut,  and  then  the  question  was :  Is 
the  store  of  honey  above  or  below  the  small  hole,  which 
was  not  large  enough  to  admit  a  man's  hand?  A  careful 
examination  of  the  hole  showed  that  a  dead  limb  had  left 
a  place  which  woodpeckers  had  followed  into  the  heart 
of  the  tree,  and  the  rains  and  the  frosts  had  helped  them 
to  enlarge  their  excavations  in  the  decayed  heart,  but  the 
yearly  growth  of  sap-wood  had  kept  the  outer  hole  small. 
The  bees  had  so  closed  the  hole  with  wax  that  the  rain 
was  shed  outwardly,  and  when  we  cut  off  a  section  two 
feet  above  and  a  like  distance  below  the  hole,  and  split  it, 
we  found  a  store  of  honey  that  made  us  cut  poles  in  order 
to  carry  it  home  in  a  roll  of  bark.  It  not  only  helped  us 
out  through  the  season  of  scant  game,  but  we  took  some 
honey  home  to  Potosi.  What's  that?  You  want  to 
know  what  became  of  the  poor  bees  which  had  laid  up 
this  store  to  keep  them  through  the  winter?  In  the 
name  of  man,  what  do  you  think?  They  simply  died 
from  cold  and  hunger;  what's  that  to  us?  You  fellows 
who  think  that  because  a  bee  had  laid  up  a  store  for  the 
winter  by  hard  work  he  is  entitled  to  use  it  to  preserve 
his  life  make  me  tired.  What  is  the  suffering  or  death 
of  any  animal  to  man,  if  he  wants  the  product  of  its  labor 
to  tickle  his  palate,  or  its  fur  to  supply  the  demands  of 
fashion?  What  is  the  suffering  of  his  fellow  man  to  him 
if  he  fills  his  coffers?  Yet  this  spirit  of  selfishness  exists 
throughout  all  nature;  the  fox  eats  the  rabbit,  but  there 
are  men  who  have  sacrificed  self  for  principle,  a  motive 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  243 

beyond  anything  that  is  possible  for  one  of  the  "lower 
animals"  to  do,  and  after  all  there  are  men  who  are  really 
honest  as  the  world  goes  who  will  rob  a  hard-working 
bee  of  the  fruits  of  its  summer  labor  and  leave  it  to  perish 
in  the  winter. 

A  month  later  there  was  a  thaw,  and  I  got  caught  in 
it.  The  thongs  in  the  snowshoes  softened  and  stretched, 
and  in  places  where  the  shade  of  hills  or  trees  preserved 
the  temperature  the  snow  packed  and  froze  on  the  thongs 
until  it  was  severe  work  to  lift  a  foot.  Frequent  recourse 
to  the  stream  removed  the  snow,  but  it  was  only  a  tem- 
porary relief,  and  progress  was  slow  and  painful.  The 
crust  had  softened,  and  without  snowshoes  a  man  would 
sink  down  at  least  twenty  inches,  which  was  knee-deep 
for  me,  and  in  snow  packed  by  laying  all  winter  this 
made  travel  impossible  without  snowshoes,  while  with 
them  a  thaw  like  this  clogged  them  so  that  they  were  of 
little  use.  It  was  evident  that  I  must  make  a  camp  for 
the  night  before  the  regular  camping  place  could  be 
reached,  and  before  nightfall  I  had  a  shelter  constructed 
against  a  huge  log  by  means  of  poles  and  brush,  and  a 
bed  of  balsam  boughs  kept  my  blankets  from  the  snow. 
I  was  out  three  nights  on  this  trip,  and  was  lame  and 
sore  on  reaching  the  cabin.  The  stream  was  so  high  and 
rapid  that  it  would  have  involved  some  extra  miles  of 
travel  to  find  a  crossing  place  if  Antoine  had  not  felled  a 
great  oak  across  the  swollen  brook  at  the  point  where  he 
knew  I  would  reach  it. 

Antoine  had  a  severe  toothache.  It  had  troubled 
him  a  little  for  some  weeks,  but  now  it  was  raging.  To- 
bacco had  no  effect  upon  it,  and  he  suffered  in  silence 
except  when  an  extra  twinge  forced  a  sacre  or  a  big  D 
from  him.  He  ate  little,  but  sat  by  the  fire  and  thought. 
Pipe  after  pipe  was  filled  and  emptied,  and  still  he 


244  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

thought.  My  sore  muscles  kept  me  still  until  it  was 
about  time  to  turn  in,  and  as  I  moved  Antoine  looked  up 
and  said:  "I'll  tole  you.  You  gat  pull  dis  toot'.  I  can't 
stan'  heem  no  mo';  you  mus'  pull  a-heem.  Wat  you  say, 
hey?  I'll  t'ink  I'll  wait  till  you  come  back;  but  he  hurt 
lak  da  dev'." 

Here  was  a  strange  job  indeed.  In  the  course  of  my 
short  experience  I  could  remember  going  down  the 
Greenbush  bank  to  Dr.  Getty  and  seeing  him  wrap  a 
handkerchief  around  what  he  called  a  "turnkey,"  and 
then  I  nearly  fainted  when  he  told  me  to  open  my  mouth 
while  he  applied  that  villainous  thing,  which  was  like  a 
"cant  hook,"  which  lumbermen  use  to  roll  logs,  or  like  a 
stump  puller,  and  twisted  a  molar  out  of  my  jaw  by  turn- 
ing such  a  handle  as  a  corkscrew  has.  Later,  Dr.  Fris— 
bee  had  used  the  more  modern  forceps  on  one  of  my  in- 
cisors, and  these  recollections  were  vivid,  as  they  called 
up  the  sensation  of  nerves  pulled  until  they  snapped  like 
a  harp  string.  I  ran  these  things  over  rapidly  and  said : 

"Antoine,  I  haven't  got  a  tool  to  pull  a  tooth  with, 
and  wouldn't  know  how  to  pull  it  if  I  had.  I've  seen  the 
loose  teeth  of  children  pulled  with  a  thread,  but  that  tooth 
of  yours  is  solid  in  your  jaw.  I  can't  do  it;  no  use  talk- 
ing about  it." 

"I'll  gat  da  t'ing  all  plan,"  said  he,  "I'll  tole  you. 
'Fore  you  come  I'll  run  up  all  da  lead  in  bullet  for  you' 
big  gun  an'  mine.  Dan  we  gat  no  use  for  da  mole. 
.You'll  tak  da  mole  an'  pull  da  toot',  hey?" 

"Antoine,  I  can't  pull  that  tooth  with  a  bullet  mould; 
it  isn't  the  right  shape,  and  it  won't  hold.  I'll  only  tor- 
ture you,  and  you'd  better  wait  until  we  get  back  to  civil- 
ization. The  tooth  may  be  better  in  a  few  days.  Try 
and  bear  it;  we'll  be  home  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then  if  it 
troubles  you  there  will  be  a  chance  to  have  it  pulled  by 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  245 

some  dentist;  I  can't  do  it,  and  that  is  all  there  is 
about  it." 

"Now  look-a  here.  See  how  I'll  fix  da  mole  for 
pull-a  toot'."  And  he  showed  me  how  he  had  ruined  a 
good  bullet  mould  to  make  a  poor  pair  of  forceps.  He 
had  taken  one  of  the  files  which  we  brought  to  sharpen 
our  axes,  and  had  filed  off  the  outsides  of  the  mould  into 
the  cavity  until  the  thing  resembled  a  blacksmith's 
pincers.  Then  he  had  roughened  the  tips  to  make  a  grip 
for  them,  and  had  actually  hollowed  the  edges  to  fit  his 
tooth.  I  looked  the  thing  over  with  conflicting  emo- 
tions. Here  was  an  instrument  of  torture  which  in  ex- 
pert hands  might  relieve  suffering,  but  in  mine  seemed 
sure  to  increase  it.  One  thing  was  certain,  Antoine  was 
in  earnest;  he  was  desperate;  no  suicide  was  ever  more 
so.  He  watched  my  face,  and  after  a  while  said:  "Wat 
you  say,  hey?" 

"I  say  that  I  want  to  help  you  out  of  your  agony,  but 
I  don't  believe  I  can  do  it." 

"You  'fraid  you  hurt  me,  hey?" 

"Yes,  Antoine,  that's  just  it;  I'm  afraid  I  will  hurt 
you,  and  not  do  you  any  good." 

"I'll  tole  you,  he  mak'  no  dif.  I'll  gat  all  da  hurt. 
Wat  for  you  'fraid?  You  no  getta  hurt;  come  on,  I'll 
tak'  da  chance;  you  tole  how  you  want  me  for  set  down 
so  you  pull  da  bes'." 

Putting  fresh  logs  on  the  fire,  and  bringing  in  some 
brush  to  make  a  bright  light,  for  the  old  man  would  not 
wait  until  morning,  I  looked  at  the  offending  tooth.  For 
the  benefit  of  my  dentist  friends,  who  have  given  me  the 
most  exquisite  form  of  torture  applied  to  man  in  modern 
days,  I  will  say  that  the  offending  tooth  was  a  pre-molar 
on  the  right  side  of  the  lower  jaw. 

Antoine  laid  himself  on  the  floor,  and  I  sat  with  my 


246  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

back  to  the  logs  of  the  cabin.  If  they  did  not  give  way 
I  was  all  right.  I  pulled  him  up  to  me,  put  a  wooden 
plug  between  his  molars  to  keep  his  mouth  open,  planted 
both  feet  on  his  shoulders,  put  the  improvised  forceps  on 
the  tooth  and  pulled.  There  was  a  howl  as  I  pulled  with 
arms  and  pushed  with  legs,  but  the  "pullicans"  slipped 
from  my  hands.  They  were  all  right  as  far  as  a  grip  on 
the  tooth  went,  but  they  were  not  made  for  a  strong  pull 
on  their  handles. 

Let  us  pass  over,  in  a  spirit  of  charity,  any  remarks 
that  Antoine  made.  No  doubt  the  recording  angel 
blotted  them  from  the  book,  as  he  did  the  one  made  by 
"my  Uncle  Toby/'  and  I  have  no  desire  to  go  behind  the 
record  further  than  to  say  that  Antoine  really  did  say 
something  when  his  tooth  was  started  from  its  socket, 
but  still  throbbed  with  violence. 

Antoine  arose  and  looked  at  me,  "more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,"  and  I  hastened  to  say:  "The  mould 
slipped  in  my  hand;  there  is  no  grip  on  the  handles,  but 
if  you  can  stand  another  go  of  this  I  will  fix  the  thing  so 
that  the  tooth  or  the  bullet  mould  will  break,  or  I  will 
bring  out  the  tooth  or  your  jawbone.  What  you  say, 
hey?" 

Antoine  merely  nodded  assent,  and  I  put  the  handles 
of  the  bullet  mould  in  the  fire  and  then  turned  them  out- 
ward so  that  they  could  not  slip  through  my  hands. 
Something  must  come  now  if  Antoine  had  not  had 
enough.  I  was  not  sure  that  I  could  have  stood  another 
such  a  trial  if  our  positions  had  been  reversed,  but  it  is 
easy  to  stand  it  when  the  other  fellow  does  the  suffering. 
When  the  handles  were  cool  and  all  was  ready  I  looked 
at  Antoine,  who  had  resumed  his  seat  by  the  fire  with  his 
jaw  in  his  hand.  He  arose  and  said: 

"W'en  you  ready  I'll  come  one  odder  tarn.     Mebbe 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  247 

you'll  t'ink  da  ole  Frenchman  got  no  game  an'  he  no 
stanj  da  gaff.*  Come  on;  I'll  be  all  a-ready."  And  he 
lay  on  the  floor  in  the  proper  place.  His  nerve  gave  me 
confidence,  and  again  I  put  the  plug  in  his  mouth,  braced 
my  back  against  the  logs  and  my  moccasins  on  his 
shoulders.  Carefully  pushing  the  "pullicans"  down  as 
far  as  I  could  get  them,  I  gripped  the  handles,  straight- 
ened my  legs,  and  with  a  snap  the  tooth  came  out  and  my 
head  made  a  tunk  on  the  log  behind  that  seemed  hard 
enough  to  have  left  a  dent  in  either  head  or  log.  An- 
toine  jumped  up  and  yelled  with  joy.  He  took  the  tooth 
and  threw  it  in  the  fire,  saying  a  verse  in  his  French 
patois  which  I  did  not  understand,  and  after  a  comfort- 
ing pipe  we  went  to  bed. 

Spring  came.  The  melting  snows  filled  the  streams. 
The  drumming  call  of  the  woodpeckers  on  a  dead  tree 
sounded  frequently,  and  the  thunder  of  the  cock  par- 
tridge or  ruffed  grouse  was  frequent.  Ducks  flew  up 
and  down  the  stream,  and  the  snow  in  places  was  not  a 
foot  deep.  Antoine  said:  "I'll  tole  you.  Wen  you  go 
on  you'  line  it's  las'  time  to-morrer,  an'  you  bring  in  all-a 
steel  trap  an'  let  down  all-a  dead-fall.  Da  fur  he  get 
loose  an'  begin  to  shed,  an'  it's  no  use  to  stay  here  longer 
w'en  you  no  get  da  prime  skin.  We  go  home.  I  t'ink; 
yes?" 

I  ran  my  line  for  the  last  time,  and  came  in  and  packed 
up  for  the  home  trip.  Our  packs  were  arranged,  and 
were  not  as  heavy  as  on  the  up  trip.  The  provisions- 
were  about  gone,  and  the  furs  were  dry  and  light,  so  we 
only  had  to  make  two  trips  instead  of  four  from  our  cabin 
to  the  boat. 


*The  expression  "stand  the  gaff"  was  a  relic  of  Antoine'9  cock-fight- 
ing days  in  Canada,  and  when  he  wished  to  imply  that,a  man  had  no  grit 
he  would  say,  ""He  no«tan'  da, gaff." 


248  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Our  provisions  and  cooking  utensils  with  one  rifle 
were  taken  on  the  first  trip,  and  the  furs  on  the  second. 
The  otter  skins  had  been  stretched  on  long  "shakes" 
split  by  Antoine's  axe;  the  other  skins,  except  those  of 
the  two  wolverines,  the  deer  and  bear  skins,  were 
"cased"  and  had  been  stretched  on  forked  twigs,  and 
therefore  the  flat  hides  made  a  large,  broad  pack,  which 
was  more  difficult  to  get  through  the  forest  than  the  more 
valuable  furs,  which  were  cased.  Just  here  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  there  are  technical  terms  used  in  the 
above  that  a  small  boy  in  the  back  seats  might  not  under- 
stand, and  for  his  benefit  I  will  say  that  a  "flat  hide"  is 
one  that  is  split  on  the  belly  as  a  butcher  skins  an  animal. 
Fine  furs  are  "cased,"  i.  e.,  only  cut  on  the  hinder  edge 
of  the  hindlegs,  and  the  skin  drawn  off  over  the  head, 
leaving  it  like  a  mitten  without  a  thumb  and  wrong  side 
out — that  is,  with  the  fur  inside. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  regret  at  leaving  the  cabin, 
even  though  it  was  for  home.  It  had  been  a  home  to  us, 
and  Antoine  fastened  up  the  door,  saying:  "S'pose  we'll 
come  nex'  wint'.  Who  knows?  Wen  we  come  we 
gotta  da  good  ole  shanty.  Come  on."  And  we  turned 
our  backs  to  our  winter  home.  We  stopped  a  day  at  the 
boat  to  soak  it  up  and  swell  the  seams,  and  stowed  our 
furs  and  provisions  under  the  two  tarpaulins,  and  cast 
loose.  The  Bad  Ax  was  swollen,  and  the  current  was 
swift.  There  was  no  expenditure  of  muscle  in  rowing, 
but  there  was  an  anxiety  lest  pole  or  paddle  should  fail 
and  wreck  us  on  a  bend  or  a  rifHe.  Some  of  the  latter, 
which  we  had  to  make  a  portage  round  in  the  fall,  we 
could  shoot  now,  with  more  or  less  risk.  When  we 
reached  the  Wisconsin  River  we  camped,  and  felt  that  all 
danger  was  over.  It  was  plain  sailing  after  this.  We 
killed  five  mallards  with  our  rifles,  and  that  gave  us 


ANTOINE  GARDAPEE.  249 

plenty  of  fresh  duck,  and  we  caught  a  large  pike  by 
trolling  a  minnow.  Next  day  we  merely  guided  our 
boat  down  the  river  and  into  the  Mississippi,  and  after 
one  more  night  out  the  Father  of  Waters  brought  us  to 
Dubuque,  some  eighteen  miles  below  Potosi,  where  An- 
toine  had  a  bachelor's  cabin  and  I  had  dearer  ties. 

When  we  tied  up  at  the  wharf  at  Dubuque  and  went 
ashore  we  met  Frank  Neaville,  and  learned  that  all  our 
loved  ones  were  well.  Frank  went  home  that  night,  and 
carried  the  news  of  our  arrival.  There  were  serveral  fur 
buyers  about  Dubuque,  and  they  came  to  see  us.  I  was 
for  selling  to  the  first  one,  but  Antoine  would  not  have 
it.  The  buyers  came  down,  and  handled  our  furs  and  bid 
on  them,  and  finally  they  were  sold  for  cash  one  morn- 
ing. There  was  a  steamer  to  go  up  in  the  afternoon 
which  would  run  up  the  Grant  River  to  Potosi.  I  woufd 
go  on  that,  but  Antoine  had  struck  some  Canuck  friends 
and  had  got  drunk,  and  I  did  not  want  to  leave  him  with 
the  chance  of  his  being  robbed  by  those  thieves  which 
then  infested  the  river  towns,  and  I  went  in  search  of 
him.  I  got  him  on  board  the  boat  with  one  of  his  friends 
and  gave  the  steward  a  good  tip  to  entertain  them,  and 
before  Antoine  knew  where  he  was  he  found  himself 
ashore  at  La  Fayette,  the  landing  for  Potosi,  with  the 
major  portion  of  his  winter's  earnings  in  his  pocket. 

Once  during  the  next  summer  Antoine  came  to  jne, 
and  made  me  a  proposition  to  go  down  in  Louisiana  and 
trap  next  winter.  He  said  that  fur  was  plenty  there,  and 
in  the  spring  we  would  take  our  skins  to  St.  Paul  and 
sell  them  to  some  green  fur  buyers,  who  would  think 
they  were  Northern  furs.  I  did  not  do  it,  but  will  tell 
you  where  I  went  the  next  winter  later  on. 

My  good  friend,  Hon.  J.  W.  Seaton,  of  Potosi,  Wis., 
whom  I  knew  in  the  days  of  which  I  am  writing,  sends 


250  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

me  this  note  in  response  to  a  question:  "I  can  give  you 
but  little  information  about  Antoine  Gardapee,  the 
French  trapper  you  went  North  with  the  winter  you 
write  about.  I  remember  you  both  very  well,  and  the 
fact  of  your  going  up  on  the  Bad  Ax  the  year  before 
Tom  Davies,  and  you  went  with  the  surveying  party 
when  Henry  Neaville  froze  his  feet;  but  I  can't  recall 
what  became  of  Gardapee  further  than  this:  He  ran  a 
private  ferry  on  the  Mississippi  River  from  Cassville, 
Wis.,  to  the  mouth  of  Turkey  River,  la.,  some  years  after 
you  left  Potosi.  The  generation  in  which  he  lived  has 
passed  away — the  trapper,  hunter  and  Indian  have  gone 
to  the  happy  hunting  grounds,  and  have  left  scarce  a 
trace  behind  them;  their  names,  places,  kindred  and 
friends  are  alike  forgotten,  and  the  pall  of  oblivion  hangs 
over  their  resting-place." 

There  seems  to  be  nothing  to  be  added  .to  the  very 
good  obituary  note  of  Judge  Seaton. 


SERGEANT   FRANK  NEAVILLE. 

FISH,    'COONS   AND    PAWPAWS. 

THE  snow  had  left  the  south  side  of  the  hills,  and 
there  were  evidences  of  spring  overhead  and 
underfoot  when  I  parted  with  Antoine,  he  to 
visit  some  friends  up  the  river  and  I  to  settle  down  in  Po- 
tosi  to  civilized  life.  To  get  shaved  again,  to  sleep  in  a 
bed  and  renew  acquaintance  with  a  potato  after  a  winter 
in  the  woods,  was  an  agreeable  change.  Few  men  who 
have  once  lived  the  life  of  a  hunter  and  trapper  ever  care 
more  for  civilization  than  to  keep  on  its  outside  edge, 
and  they  move  on  as  it  drives  them  to  seek  new  fields. 
I  imagine  such  men  find  it  dull  in  summer,  for  they  are 
seldom  reading  men,  and  when  fur  is  not  in  season  their 
lives  must  be  monotonous.  I  soon  dropped  into  my  old 
way  of  life  in  the  quaint  little  mining  village  of  Potosi. 

"Coin5  a-fishin?"  asked  Frank  Neaville,  as  he  saw 
me  selecting  some  fishing  tackle  in  one  of  the  stores. 
"Henry  has  a  new  boat,  and  he's  goin'  to  take  it  down  to 
the  landing  soon;  maybe  you  can  get  him  to  go  to-mor- 
row ;  you  know  he's  always  ready  for  a  fish  or  a  hunt,  no 
matter  what's  goin'  on." 

We  walked  down  to  the  hotel  kept  by  the  father  of 
these  boys,  and  found  Henry  in  the  backyard  putting  a 
painter  into  a  ring  in  the  bow  of  a  new  boat  and  making 
a  neat  eye-splice  in  it,  for  Henry  could  do  many  such 
things  when  he  chose.  "Hello,  Henry!"  said  I,  "you've 
got  a  nice  sharpie  there,  but  in  our  talks  since  I  came 
down  from  the  Bad  Ax  you  haven't  mentioned  it." 

251 


252  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"What's  that  name  you  called  the  boat?" 

"A  sharpie.     What  do  you  call  it?" 

"I  call  it  a  skiff,  and  it  is  a  skiff;  sharpie  is  some  of 
your  New  York  language,  I  suppose;  did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  skiff?" 

"Yes,  and  they  are  two  different  boats  in  the  New 
York  language,  but  we  won't  fight  about  that.  I  want 
to  go  fishing  to-morrow,  and  if  you  want  to  try  the  new 
shar — skiff,  I  mean,  just  fill  her  full  of  water  to  swell  the 
seams  and  get  her  on  the  wagon  in  the  morning;  that's 
all." 

Frank  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  there  was  room 
for  three,  and  intimated  that  he  would  go  if  his  company 
was  earnestly  desired. 

"Frank,"  replied  his  brother,  "you  know  that  you're 
the  durn'dest  fool  in  a  boat  that  lives  in  Wisconsin.  Last 
year  you  upset  us  when  we  were  coming  down  Swift 
Sloo  by  grabbing  a  branch  to  look  after  some  wounded 
bird,  and  we  had  to  stop  all  night  on  the  island  and  be 
eaten  by  mosquitoes  because  Fred's  rifle  was  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sloo.  We  don't  want  any  more  of  that  funny 
business,  and  you  had  better  stay  home."  Then  turning 
to  me,  Henry  explained:  "Frank's  all  right  to  weigh  out 
sugar  and  coffee  in  a  grocery,  and  he  can  figure  up  how 
many  papers  of  tacks  would  balance  a  pound  of  nails;  but 
you  had  a  sample  of  him  last  year;  he  hasn't  got  good, 
sound  sense,  like  a  mule,  for  a  mule  can  take  care  of  him- 
self any  time,  and  wouldn't  dump  us  all  in  the  drink  to 
look  at  a  pelican.  If  you  can  stand  him,  all  right;  I 
won't  object." 

Then  it  was  Frank's  innings.  He  was  the  younger 
but  larger  of  the  two,  and  he  replied:  "Henry  is  the 
bright  boy  of  the  family,  and  very  few  families  have  more 
than  one  bright  boy,  if  they're  so  fortunate  as  to  have 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  253 

even  one.  He  is  the  oldest,  and  there  are  several  little 
fellows  growing  up,  and  if  I'm  not  as  brilliant  as  Henry 
I  can't  help  it;  but  I  hope  some  of  the  little  fellows  may 
come  near  his  high  standard.  I  don't  want  to  go  if  I'm 
not  wanted."  And  he  turned  off,  and  went  into  the 
house. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  Frank  resent 
Henry's  good-natured  chaff,  and  I  hurried  after  him  and 
brought  him  back.  Said  I:  "Henry,  I  want  Frank  to 
go  with  us,  and,  confound  you,  you  want  him  to  go,  but 
your  temptation  to  roast  him  over  that  upset  is  fun  for 
you;  but  Frank  doesn't  like  it.  As  a  student  of  Shakes- 
peare, you  will  remember  that  somewhere  he  says  that  a 
joke  requires  a  good  listener,  or  something  of  the  kind, 
to  make  it  go.  Frank  thinks  you  are  bearing  too  hard 
on  him  for  his  mistake,  and  it's  time  to  let  up." 

Henry  laughed  and  said:  "Frank  never  knows  a  joke 
when  he  hears  it;  he  wouldn't  know  one  if  he  found  it  in 
his  soup.  What  Shakespeare  said  was:  'A  jest's  pros- 
perity lies  in  the  ear  of  him  who  hears  it,  never  in  the 
tongue  of  him  that  makes  it,'  but  if  Frank  wants  to  go 
fishing  with  us,  all  right;  I've  no  objection,  and  in  fact 
would  like  to  have  him  go;  but  since  the  time  when  we 
slept  out  on  the  island  I  have  gone  fishing  a  dozen  times, 
and  he  has  never  asked  to  go.  I  think  he  likes  your 
company.  Come  along,  Frank;  I  only  wanted  to  knock 
a  little  fun  out  of  you,  and  you  go  off  mad."  Frank 
winked  at  me;  he  was  not  angry  the  least  bit,  but  this  was 
his  joke  on  his  brother. 

In  the  morning  we  walked  behind  the  wagon  which 
carried  the  boat  to  the  river,  for  it  had  a  load  of  lead.  I 
took  my  rifle  along,  because  I  wanted  some  meat,  either 
of  duck  or  hog,  or  both.  As  related  in  my  sketch  of 
Henry,  there  were  hogs  on  the  islands,  and  I  had  bought 


254:  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

an  interest  in  them.  I  also  had  several  cane  "poles,"  as 
we  called  them,,  and  loaned  one  to  each  of  the  boys.  I 
was  inclined  to  be  a  "dude"  sportsman  in  that  early  day, 
if  we  interpret  that  abused  term  to  mean  a  man  who  likes 
to  own  the  best  things  that  he  can  get,  and  who  will  pay 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar  for  a  light  natural  cane  in  preference 
to  using  a  heavy  sapling  cut  in  the  woods  to  be  thrown 
away  after  using.  In  fact,  I  would  to-day,  if  not  then, 
rather  be  a  "Sunberry  Fisher"  than  his  opposite.  In 
these  days  of  game  hogs  and  of  men  who  fish  for  count 
and  brag,  I  say  with  due  deliberation  and  with  full  knowl- 
edge of  the  ridicule  to  which  a  man  with  fine  fishing 
tackle  is  subjected  if  he  is  unsuccessful  in  a  day's  fishing, 
that  I  would  rather  be  in  his  place  and  own  tackle  to  be 
proud  of  than  to  be  the  proverbial  boy  with  an  alder  pole, 
a  "letter  in  the  post-office,"  and  a  big  string  of  trout;  but 
the  fact  is  that  a  good  angler  with  good  tackle  can  beat 
the  boy,  if  he  knows  the  stream  well. 

With  the  man  who  loves  fishing  for  itself  and  not  for 
the  fish,  the  capture  of  a  record-breaking  string  is  of  no 
consequence.  The  old  story  of  the  "funny  man"  catches 
the  popular  fancy.  To-day  when  I  fish  for  trout  I  use  a 
rod  which  cost  $35,  and  it  is  worth  every  cent  of  it.  My 
reel,  line  and  book  of  flies  cost  as  much  more,  and  on  a 
trout  stream  there  is  no  bare-footed  farmer's  boy  with 
his  alder  pole  and  worm  who  can,  day  after  day,  take 
more  trout  than  I  or  thousands  of  other  anglers  can.  He 
might  on  an  odd  day,  where  he  knew  all  the  trout  holes — 
but  not  as  a  rule.  And  if  he  did?  Still  I  say:  I  would 
prefer  to  be  the  Sunberry  Fisher  who  "caught  nothing 
at  all,"  for  why  do  we  prefer  a  gold  watch  to  a  silver  one? 
It  may  keep  no  better  time.  We  like  elegant  harness  on 
our  horses,  but  they  pull  the  carriage  no  better  than  if 
tied  to  it  with  bits  of  rope.  Now  you  young  anglers  can 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  255 

see  just  what  I  mean.  There  is  pleasure  to  the  sports- 
man in  cleaning  and  caring  for  his  rod  and  gun;  he  has 
a  feeling  of  companionship  for  it — he  gets  to  love  it  for 
the  memories  it  brings,  and  to  throw  it  aside  after  a  fish- 
ing or  shooting  trip  would  be  base  ingratitude.  There 
is  a  high  and  noble  affection  for  old  companions  in  the 
forest  and  on  the  stream,  and  the  man  who  truly  loves  the 
sport  for  sport's  sake,  and  not  for  the  amount  of  meat  he 
gets,  cherishes  the  implements  which  aided  him.  Even 
a  savage  will  ornament  his  pipe  and  his  war  club — but 
my  pen  is  straying  again,  and  has  led  me  off  from  the 
story  of  this  particular  fishing  trip.  Let  it  go ;  the  editor 
will  probably  "blue  pencil"  all  the  extraneous  matter, 
and  so  we  get  back  to  the  mouth  of  Grant  River,  Wis., 
in  the  spring  of  1856,  with  the  Neaville  boys. 

Henry  watched  the  boat  after  it  was  launched  and 
seemed  satisfied  with  its  balance  in  the  water,  and  we 
rowed  off  to  one  of  the  islands  which  are  so  numerous 
along  the  great  Mississippi  at  this  point.  When  we 
pulled  up  on  the  island  Henry  asked:  "Where  do  you 
want  to  fish?  Here  you  can  get  swift  water  or  still 
water,  just  as  you  want  it."  A  bend  where  water  plants 
were  just  struggling  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  water  caught 
my  eye,  and  it  looked  like  a  good  spot  for  pike,  so  I 
replied:  "I've  got  some  small  minnow  hooks,  and  if  we 
stop  right  here  and  get  about  fifty  small  fish,  we  may  get 
some  good  pike  over  in  that  bend  among  the  weeds." 
The  result  was  similar  to  that  recorded  in  the  sketch 
entitled,  "The  Brockway  Boys."  Skittering  for  pike  or 
pickerel  was  a  new  thing,  and  all  new  methods  are  dis- 
trusted. The  old  woman  who  saw  a  patent  machine  for 
milking  cows  looked  at  it  and  declared,  "The  old- 
fashioned  way  is  the  best;"  and  in  this  case  she  was 
right.  Henry  did  not  say  a  word  against  it,  but,  like 


256  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

William  Brockway,  he  thought  there  might  be  a  thing  or 
two  that  he  had  not  learned,  but  Frank  said : 

"When  you  put  one  of  these  little  fish  on  your  hook, 
and  let  it  down  in  the  water  where  the  big  fish  live,  you 
may  get  one;  but  to  'skitter'  a  little  fish  over  the  surface 
and  scare  all  the  big  ones  below  looks  like  foolishness, 
but  if  you  say  it's  a  good  plan  we'll  try  it.  Mother  will 
expect  some  fish  for  breakfast,  and  I  want  to  go  over  in 
a  tree  top  and  get  some  crappies.  I  don't  want  to  go 
back  without  a  thing." 

Henry  had  listened  to  all  this,  and  after  some  delib- 
eration said :  "Let's  land  Frank  in  a  tree  top,  and  then  go 
over  and  try  for  the  pike.  Mother  can't  have  any  of  our 
fish  for  breakfast  to-morrow,  because  we've  got  provis- 
ions for  two  days,  and  we  propose  to  stay  and  eat  'em  up, 
if  Frank  doesn't  see  another  wounded  pelican  and  upset 
the  boat.  Yes,  Frank,  you  get  in  that  tree  top  and  fish  for 
crappies,  and  we'll  stop  and  get  you  day  after  to-morrow. 
We'll  leave  you  grub  enough,  and  there's  a  good  big  limb 
to  straddle,  so  you'll  be  comfortable  until  we  come  back. 
The  mosquitoes  are  not  out  yet,  and  you'll  be  very  happy. 
If  the  limb  gets  to  be  uncomfortable,  you  can  change  and 
sit  on  it  side-saddle  fashion." 

Frank  looked  at  me  and  asked:  "Are  you  going  to 
stay  out  to-night  and  not  go  home  until  Saturday  morn- 
ing?" 

"That  was  our  arrangement,  and  I  thought  you  un- 
derstood it;  when  the  axe  was  put  in  the  wagon  you 
asked  what  it  was  for,  and  Henry  told  you  it  was  to  cut 
wood  for  camp,  and  we  would  not  need  a  fire  if  we  were 
going  home  to-night;  I'm  sorry  if " 

"No,  don't  be  sorry  about  me;  I'll  stay  out  as  long  as 
any  of  you  if  you'll  only  make  Henry  let  up  about  that 
accident  last  summer.  If  he  doesn't  stop  it  I'll  duck  him 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAV1LLE.  257 

again,  when  I  can  do  it  without  wetting  you.  Every 
man,  woman  and  child  in  Potosi  knows  about  that  upset 
of  the  boat,  and  that's  enough.  I  don't  care  about  it 
since  I  said  I  was  sorry,  but  all  winter,  while  you  were 
away,  he  would  grin  as  he  passed  me  and  quote  from 
Byron : 

'Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell- 
Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave; 

Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  fearful  yell, 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave.' 

"He  used  to  spout  that  in  school,  and  he  thought  it 
would  annoy  me,  but  it  didn't — well,  not  as  much  as  he 
thought  it  did." 

Frank  was  more  sensitive  to  Henry's  exasperating 
nagging  than  he  would  own.  It  was  not  so  much 
Henry's  quotation  from  "Don  Juan"  as  the  "grin"  which 
accompanied  it,  and  by  constant  repetition  Frank  had 
become  sensitive,  as  "the  touched  needle  trembles  at  the 
pole,"  and  this  sort  of  thing  is  not  conducive  to  con- 
genial fishing.  I  told  Frank  that  Henry  would  find 
some  other  outlet  for  his  humor.  When  Henry  came 
back  with  some  minnows,  after  we  had  landed,  I  took 
him  one  side,  and  Frank's  peace  of  mind  about  the  upset 
was  undisturbed  afterward. 

We  caught  some  minnows  and  skittered  for  pike,  or 
"pickerel,"  as  we  called  them  in  New  York,  and  took  six 
or  seven  that  day — fish  that  would  weigh  from  three  to 
six  pounds.  We  had  no  reels — we  weren't  up  to  that 
in  those  days — but  we  had  a  ring  on  the  top  of  the  rod, 
and  gave  line  or  hauled  in  through  it.  Once  Frank 
struck  a  big  one.  He  yelled:  "Come  and  help  me! 
He'll  get  away!  The  line  is  cutting  my  hand,"  etc.,  and 


258  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

I  took  his  coat-tail  in  my  palm  and  checked  the  fish. 
When  it  was  safe  in  the  boat  Frank  drew  a  long  breath 
and  said:  "Well,  I'll  be  durned  if  that  fish  won't  weigh 
twenty  pounds.  If  you  hadn't  helped  me  he  would  have 
broken  something,  or  I  would  have  been  pulled  over- 
board. Yes,  by  jing!  He'll  weigh  twenty-five  pounds." 

My  own  estimate  was  that  the  pike  might  weigh  about 
ten  pounds,  but  what  was  the  use  of  putting  a  damper  on 
the  boy's  enthusiasm?  My  new  mode  of  skittering  a 
minnow  on  the  surface  had  won;  his  skepticism  had  van- 
ished, and  it  was  a  triumph  for  both.  We  went  ashore, 
rolled  a  log  down  to  the  water,  and  dug  out  a  basin 
behind  it,  where  our  fish  could  be  kept  alive,  their  splash- 
ings  in  the  water  serving  to  circulate  it  through  the  small 
openings  at  each  end  of  the  log;  for  we  didn't  want  to 
kill  our  game  until  we  started  for  home. 

The  day  was  a  fine  one,  and  the  fishing  was  fair  for 
those  days;  it  would  be  called  excellent,  grand,  to-day, 
and  considering  the  high  state  of  the  river  we  did  well. 
The  bend  where  we  fished  was  comparatively  still  water, 
just  the  place  for  pike,  which  prefer  quiet  nooks  and 
ponds  and  avoid  the  quick  waters.  The  geese  had 
passed  north,  and  so  had  the  great  bodies  of  swans  and 
pelicans;  but  to  our  surprise  a  small  flock  of  sandhill 
cranes  went  over  us,  high  in  the  air  and  glistening  in  the 
sun.  Most  likely  the  last  flock  of  the  season.  Frank 
called  attention  to  them  and  wondered  what  they  were. 

"Sandhill  cranes,"  said  Henry. 

Frank  grinned  and  replied:  "I  never  saw  such  a  fel- 
low to  know  everything  as  Henry  is.  That  flock  of  birds 
are  too  high  up  to  see  their  shape,  and  he'll  tell  you  just 
what  they  are.  He  thinks  he  can  play  anything  on  me. 
What  do  you  think  they  are?" 

"Just  as  Henry  named  them.     Henry  is  more  of  a 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  259 

hunter,  naturalist,  or  whatever  you  are  a  mind  to  call 
him/'  said  I.  "He  notices  things  which  you  don't  see. 
Watch  the  flight  of  that  flock.  See!  They  all  flap  their 
wings  in  unison,  and  then  all  stop  at  once  and  sail,  seem- 
ing to  follow  the  'stroke  oar.'  Did  you  ever  see  any 
other  birds  do  that?" 

"I  never  noticed  them.  It  is  queer,  though,  how  they 
all  work  together  that  way.  Don't  geese  fly  like  that?" 

"Oh,  no;  a  goose  is  a  heavy-bodied  bird  that  couldn't 
sail  a  minute  up  there;  it's  hard  work  for  a  goose  from 
the  time  it  starts  until  it  stops.  If  you  watch  the  flight 
of  different  kinds  of  ducks  and  the  way  they  flock  you 
will  soon  be  able  to  tell  what  they  are.  There  goes  a 
dozen  mallards;  see  how  differently  they  fly  from  the 
bluebills  coming  up  behind  them.  I  can't  tell  you  the 
difference,  but  you  can  see  it." 

"Well,  by  jing!  That's  so.  I  thought  all  ducks  flew 
alike.  I  can  tell  ducks  from  crows  by  the  way  they  fly, 
but  never  noticed  them  as  close  as  that.  Henry,  old  boy, 
you  know  a  heap  more  than  people  think  you  do;  they 
haven't  found  you  out  yet." 

Henry  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  suggested  that  it 
was  time  to  go  ashore  and  make  camp.  It  was  quite  a 
job  to  find  a  camping  spot  on  the  island.  It  had  been 
well  soaked  in  the  spring  freshets,  and  the  lower  leaves 
of  the  underbrush  were  covered  with  dried  sediment, 
where  they  had  been  submerged.  Henry  knew  these  isl- 
ands well,  and  led  us  to  a  knoll  near  a  pond  which  was 
dry  in  summer,  but  was  filled  now,  and  afforded  a  good 
feeding  place  for  ducks.  We  had  hauled  the  boat  well 
up,  and  tied  it  fast  in  case  the  river  should  rise  in  the 
night.  We  made  a  little  bough  house  and  a  bed  of  dry 
leaves,  made  a  pot  of  coffee  and  ate  supper  before  dark. 

As  I  remember  the  geography  after  an  absence  of 


260  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

forty  years,  it  is  some  five  or  six  miles  from  shore  to  shore 
near  Potosi,  the  main  channel  of  the  river  being  on  the 
Iowa  side.  On  the  Wisconsin  shore  the  Grant  River 
came  in,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  wooded  islands  along 
there  with  channels  of  all  degrees  of  swiftness  between 
them.  In  the  days  of  which  I  write  the  ducks  congre- 
gated here  in  great  numbers  in  spring  and  fall.  We 
were  well  out,  and  preferred  to  stay  on  the  island  than  to 
row  over  to  the  mainland.  After  supper  I  told  Henry 
that  I  had  never  slept  on  any  of  these  islands  in  duck  time, 
and  if  he  did  not  object  we  would  not  light  our  night 
fire  until  after  dark,  so  that  we  could  see  the  ducks  come 
in.  It  was  about  half  an  hour  before  sundown,  and  some 
of  the  flocks  began  to  arrive,  and  such  a  babel!  The 
heavy  mallards  would  come  in,  back  wind  with  their 
wings  and  drop  down  with  a  splash,  and  then  the  loud- 
voiced  females  would  raise  a  din.  Swift  bluebills  and 
butterballs  would  rush  over  our  heads,  circle  around  and 
settle  down.  The  swiftest  of  all  ducks,  the  little  green- 
winged  teal,  would  suddenly  appear  from  nowhere,  and 
splash  down  into  the  water  without  circling  about,  com- 
ing into  it  much  as  a  stone  would.  The  high-voiced 
widgeon,  the  bass  of  the  frogs,  the  heavy  quack  of  the 
mallard  and  the  lighter  one  of  the  bluewing,  which 
sounded  like  an  echo,  and  the  curious  burr!  of  the  blue- 
bill  made  a  concert  to  be  remembered.  The  pond  might 
have  covered  three  acres,  and  two  thousand  ducks,  at 
least,  rested  on  it  that  night.  We  did  not  try  to  shoot 
any,  for  we  thought  we  could  get  what  we  wanted  any 
time.  After  dark  we  lighted  our  fire,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  disturb  the  ducks.  Our  talk  was  not  heard  in  the 
racket  they  kept  up,  and  we  turned  in  on  our  bed  of 
leaves.  Frank  said  that  several  birds  or  flocks  flew 
around  our  fire  in  the  night,  but  Henry  and  I  slept  too 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  261 

soundly  to  hear  them.  Such  life  was  new  to  Frank,  and 
he  didn't  sleep  much. 

A  rifle  shot  awoke  me  in  the  morning,  and  there  was 
a  thundering  sound  of  rising  ducks.  Henry  had  killed  a 
mallard,  and  then  the  problem  was  to  get  the  bird.  The 
shore  was  soft  black  mud,  deep  and  treacherous,  and  al- 
though the  duck  was  not  over  thirty  feet  away,  and  stone 
dead,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  get  it.  Frank  and  I  ad- 
vised him  not  to  attempt  it,  but  he  vowed  he'd  have  that 
duck  "if  it  took  a  leg."  He  began  to  gather  driftwood, 
brush  and  limbs  and  threw  them  in  to  make  a  bridge,  and 
as  he  was  in  earnest  we  helped  him.  When  he  thought 
his  bridge  was  long  enough,  so  that  from  its  end  he  could 
reach  the  duck  with  a  pole,  he  started.  I  whispered  to 
Frank  a  caution  not  to  speak  to  him,  and  we  watched. 
The  passage  was  a  success;  he  reached  his  pole  for  the 
duck,  something  rolled,  and  he  was  floundering  in  the 
mud.  There  was  only  a  couple  of  inches  of  water  where 
he  was,  and  as  he  struggled  he  sank  to  his  waist.  We 
could  not  tell  how  much  further  he  might  sink  if  he 
struggled. 

I  called  to  him:  "Don't  move  or  you  may  go  deeper; 
keep  perfectly  still,  and  we'll  get  you  out.  Is  there  a 
grapevine  on  this  island?" 

"Not  a  vine,"  said  he,  cool  as  a  cucumber.  "Take 
your  time ;  I  won't  stir." 

He  was  over  twenty  feet  from  sound  footing,  and  we 
cut  a  sapling  and  shoved  the  end  to  him  and  pulled  until 
he  could  hold  on  no  longer.  He  let  go  so  suddenly  that 
we  sat  down.  He  had  bent  forward  so  that  the  mud 
covered  his  breast.  Frank  began  to  fear  for  his  brother, 
but  I  had  another  plan.  I  cut  a  green  cottonwood,  or 
perhaps  it  was  an  aspen,  which  had  a  fork  at  about 
twenty-five  feet,  and  these  two  limbs  were  of  an  inch  or 


262  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

more  in  diameter.  These  limbs  I  crossed  and  twisted, 
making  a  loop  big  enough  to  go  over  Henry's  shoulders, 
and  lashed  them  firmly  together  with  strips  of  bark  at 
several  points.  With  this  around  him  and  the  grip  of  his 
hands,  together  with  the  use  of  his  legs,  we  pulled  him  to 
solid  ground,  the  mud  being  plowed  up  by  his  shirt  collar 
so  that  his  clothing  was  filled  inside  and  out.  I  remained 
to  get  breakfast,  while  Frank  went  with  Henry  over  to 
the  cleaner  waters  of  the  sloo,  where  he  washed  himself 
and  his  clothes,  while  Frank  returned  for  breakfast  for 
himself  and  brother.  When  we  reached  him  his  gar- 
ments were  all  hung  in  the  sun,  but  he  was  shivering, 
for  the  morning  was  cool.  Frank  gave  him  his  trousers 
and  sat  in  his  drawers,  and  I  loaned  a  coat. 

After  he  had  some  hot  coffee  and  breakfast  he  said: 
"The  hogs  gobbled  all  our  fish  last  night,  Frank's  big 
pike  and  all,"  and  we  found  it  to  be  so.  Hogs'  tracks 
were  numerous  in  and  about  our  pool,  and  portions  of 
fish  were  scattered  about.  Frank  said:  "Well,  I'll  be 
durned!  That  pike  would  weigh  about  forty  pounds, 
and  was  bigger  than  one  Bill  Patterson  shot  up  in  Grant 
River  last  fall." 

"Yes,"  said  Henry,  "Bill's  fish  weighed  eleven  and  a 
half  pounds  on  Mallet's  scales;  I  saw  it  weighed,  and  if 
yours  weighed  forty  pounds  there  was  a  little  difference 
of  twenty-eight  and  a  half  pounds ;  not  much,  to  be  sure, 
but  still  a  difference." 

"Don't  you  think  my  fish  was  as  big  as  Bill's?" 

"Not  quite,"  said  Henry.  "I  think  your  pike  would 
weigh  nearly  as  much  as  his  if  you  fed  him  half  a  dozen 
pounds  of  shot  when  no  one  was  looking." 

Frank  appealed  to  me.  I  replied :  "I  am  not  as  good 
a  judge  of  the  weights  of  fish  as  Henry  is,  and  I  didn't 
see  Bill  Patterson's  pike.  I  am  of  the  opinion,  how- 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  263 

ever,  that  if  your  fish  was  bigger  than  Bill's  the  scales 
would  show  that  it  weighed  more,  but  as  the  hogs  have 
eaten  it  there  is  nothing  left  but  the  memory  of  it,  and 
you  know  that  we  can't  weigh  memory.  Still  I  remem- 
ber thinking  at  the  time  that  your  fish  would  go  full 
twenty  pounds  if  he  had  been  left  to  grow  for  a  few 
years." 

"I  see,"  said  Frank;  "if  Henry  was  as  wise  as  Daniel 
Webster  he  would  know  just  as  much.  All  right!  We 
are  three  great  sportsmen,  and  have  fished  one  day  and 
shot  a  duck  the  next  morning,  and  have  only  our  mem- 
ories to  show  for  it.  Not  a  scale  nor  a  feather;  'though 
I  s'pose  Henry  will  count  the  duck  he  shot  and  the  duck 
he  had  in  the  mud  as  two  ducks,  and  both  were  lost. 
No;  I'll  be  durned  if  we  don't  take  home  that  mallard, 
for  Henry  said  he'd  get  it  or  lose  a  leg.  How's  that, 
Henry;  which  leg  will  we  take  off  if  you  don't  get  that 
duck?" 

Henry  was  busy  getting  into  his  half-dried  clothes 
and  said :  "Frank,  you  may  have  that  duck." 

We  fished  that  day,  and  shot  ducks  with  my  rifle  in 
the  evening,  slept  out  next  night,  and  took  home  in  the 
morning  eight  mallards  and  all  the  pike  and  crappies  we 
could  carry. 

I  regret  that  we  cannot  print  portraits  of  these  boys. 
I  have  daguerreotypes  of  them,  taken  in  1860,  sent  me 
by  their  younger  brother,  Carlos  E.  Neaville,  now  living 
at  Brodhead,  Wis.  The  photo-engraver  says  that  they 
cannot  be  reproduced  with  any  effect  because  of  the  lack 
of  shadows.  Henry  was  about  five  feet  six  inches,  broad- 
shouldered;  a  long,  oval  face,  with  a  profuse  head  of  dark 
hair,  which  came  down  to  a  point  in  the  middle  of  his 
forehead.  Frank,  the  younger,  was  larger.  His  fore- 
head was  broader  and  his  ears  were  lower.  What  I  mean 


264:  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

by  this  is  that  my  frequent  comment  on  the  picture  of  a 
man  is:  "There  is  much  (or  little)  of  his  head  above  his 
ears."  Just  what  ethnological  value  this  has  let  others 
say.  Frank  did  show  evidences  of  the  mercantile  in- 
stinct, for  Judge  Seaton,  now  living  in  Potosi,  speaks 
highly  of  him  as  an  employee  of  his  during  the  few  years 
that  he  was  a  merchant.  But  Henry,  he  was  the  com- 
panionable fellow;  no  business  for  him  if  he  could  help  it. 
He  and  I  were  alike  in  this  respect.  The  woods  and  the 
streams  were  good  enough  for  us,  and  the  habits  of  their 
denizens  were  of  more  importance  than  dollars.  What 
poet  has  ever  written  in  praise  of  the  slave  to  lucre? 
There  I  go  again — off  the  track.  A  dollar  is  a  big  thing 
when  you  don't  own  one.  The  boy  said:  "Salt  makes 
your  potatoes  taste  bad  when  you  don't  put  any  on." 

Once  a  drunken  miner  lost  his  purse  in  the  streets  of 
Potosi,  and  Frank  found  it.  Henry,  John  Nicholas, 
Frank  and  I  were  talking  about  it  with  the  old  post- 
master, Mr.  Kaltenbach,  when  the  miner  came  up  asking 
if  anyone  had  found  his  money.  "Yes,"  said  Henry; 
"we  found  it.  How  much  was  there  in  it?"  The  man 
called  Henry  a  thief  and  struck  him.  About  the  same 
instant  Frank  handed  the  miner  one  under  the  left  jaw 
that  paralyzed  him.  We  took  the  man  into  Jo.  Hall's 
livery  stable,  and  it  took  Dr.  Gibson  over  an  hour  to 
bring  him  around.  Henry  scared  Frank  into  thinking 
he  had  killed  a  man,  and  Frank  went  over  to  Constable 
Darcy  and  gave  himself  up. 

As  the  summer  waned  and  the  first  chill  days  of  Sep- 
tember approached  Frank  asked  me:  "Did  you  ever  eat 
a  pawpaw?" 

"No;  what  is  a  pawpaw?" 

"They  are  a  fine  fruit,  and  grow  on  a  small  tree.  They 
are  shaped  like  a  cucumber  and  are  like  custard.  There 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  265 

is  a  pawpaw  grove  down  by  the  river.  They'll  be  ripe 
now  in  a  few  days,  and  we'll  make  up  a  party  and  go 
'coon  hunting.  'Coons  like  'em,  and  you  can  always 
start  one  in  the  pawpaws  when  they're  ripe." 

I  had  seen  the  trees  when  out  after  wild  plums,  which 
were  plenty  in  that  part  of  Wisconsin,  and  were  large  and 
excellent,  but  the  pawpaws  were  merely  wondered  at 
and  passed.  I  think  there  was  a  dozen  in  our  party  when 
we  started  for  'coons  on  a  moonlight  night.  Except 
Frank  and  Henry,  Charley  Guyon,  John  Clark  and  Bill 
Patterson,  the  names  are  forgotten.  Half  a  dozen  dogs, 
some  of  no  particular  breed  and  others  that  seemed  to  be 
of  all  breeds  mixed  without  regard  to  proportion,  went 
along  as  a  necessary  part  of  the  outfit. 

I  tasted  my  first  pawpaw,  but  have  yet  to  taste  the 
second  one.  The  others  ate  them  with  a  relish.  All  I 
remember  is  that  the  fruit  was  shaped  something  like  a 
banana,  but  shorter,  and  had  the  taste  of  a  raw  potato 
ground  into  a  paste;  its  seeds  were  as  large  as  a  lima 
bean.  Of  course  I  might  learn  to  like  them,  but  Potosi 
boys  acquired  the  taste  in  infancy. 

Soon  the  dogs  remarked  that  a  'coon  had  gone  off, 
because  it  did  not  care  to  eat  pawpaws  while  such  a  noisy 
crowd  invaded  the  woods ;  for  in  hunting  'coons  the  more 
noise  the  better,  as  it  puts  them  afoot,  while  if  you  are 
still  they  will  squat  on  a  limb  at  your  approach.  The 
'coon  soon  treed,  and  hid  so  that  it  could  not  be  shot. 
John  Clark's  axe  on  one  side  and  Henry  Neaville's  on 
the  other  soon  dropped  the  tree,  and  the  dogs  made  a 
rush.  We  had  a  fire  started  to  light  up  the  conflict,  but 
couldn't  see  a  thing  in  that  tree  top  but  a  mass  of  fighting 
dogs.  Cheers  and  yells  from  the  men  encouraged  the 
dogs.  "Coin,  Tige!"  "Shake  him  up,  Skip!"  "Hang 
to  him,  Buster!"  and  such  cries  cheered  on  the  dogs. 


266  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"There's  two  of  'em!"  yelled  John  Clark,  as  two  knots 
of  dogs  were  seen,  but  it  turned  out  that  one  knot  was 
merely  a  little  scrapping  of  a  couple  of  dogs  among  them- 
selves, perhaps  occasioned  by  one  dog's  jealousy  of  the 
other  fellow.  The  'coon  broke  away  and  ran  up  a  limb, 
and  a  rifle  ball  dropped  him.  And  then  such  a  row! 
Every  dog  had  hold  of  him,  and  a  man  had  hold  of  every 
dog's  tail,  and  each  dog  got  a  kick  in  the  ribs  to  admon- 
ish him  that  a  fallen  foe  should  be  respected.  I  thought 
of  the  old  story:  "Never  strike  a  man  when  he  is  down," 
said  Mulcahy.  "Never,"  replied  O'Hooligan;  "just 
sock  the  boots  to  him." 

The  'coon  was  not  badly  mangled  after  all  this;  the 
dogs  were  chewed  up  much  worse.  It  reminded  me  of 
Corny  Lannigan,  one  of  my  father's  ship  carpenters, 
when  father  said  to  him  one  morning:  "Cornelius,  you 
must  have  had  some  trouble  last  night;  your  eyes  are 
blacked,  and  your  nose  is  all  plastered  over." 

"Yes,  Captain,"  said  Corny;  "there  was  a  little  mis- 
understanding, but  you  ought  to  go  up  to  the  hospital 
and  see  the  other  fellow;"  and  I  then  remembered  read- 
ing that  the  great  General,  Pyrrhus,  once  said:  "Another 
such  a  victory  and  I  am  ruined." 

Another  'coon  was  started,  and  was  finally  found  in  a 
tree  by  the  water,  whose  base  had  been  so  washed  that  it 
leaned  out  over  Grant  River.  After  lighting  a  fire  and 
consulting  as  to  the  mode  of  attack,  Frank  offered  to  go 
up  the  leaning  tree  and  shake  the  'coon  off,  while  the 
dogs  were  to  be  held  so  as  to  see  him  drop,  and  then  be 
loosed  to  tackle  him  in  the  water.  The  plan  worked 
well.  The  'coon  dropped  at  the  first  shake,  and  so  did 
Frank.  The  dogs  rushed  in,  but  no  man  dared  shoot, 
and  after  a  short  fight  in  the  water  and  on  the  other  shore 
the  dogs  came  back,  and  we  went  home. 


SERGEANT  FRANK  NEAVILLE.  267 

"I  tell  you,"  said  John  Clark,  "it  takes  an  almighty 
good  dog  to  whip  an  old  he  'coon,  and  not  one  in  a  thou- 
sand can  do  it.  Sometimes  a  little  she  'coon  will  give  a 
dozen  such  ornery  dogs  as  we've  got  a  good  tussle  and 
get  away." 

"Look  a-here,  John  Clark,"  said  Charley  Guyon  to 
his  brother-in-law;  "do  you  call  my  dog  ornery?"  And 
so  we  talked  on  the  way  home. 

"Ornery"  is  Wisconsinese  for  "ordinary,"  but  has  no 
such  meaning.  It  implies  baseness;  it  is  a  term  of  re- 
proach. An  "ornery  cuss"  means  a  low-down  fellow, 
and  an  "ornery  dog"  is  one  of  no  possible  account.  If  a 
man  in  New  York  should  describe  me  as  an  ordinary 
man,  he  would  hit  it  right;  an  every-day  sort  of  man,  not 
distinguished  for  anything  in  particular;  but  if  a  Wiscon- 
sin man  stigmatizes  you  as  "ornery"  he  means  another 
thing,  and  if  he  is  not  a  corn-fed  fellow  you  should  "let 
go  your  left  and  follow  it  up  with  your  right." 

I  have  already  told  how  Frank  and  Henry  went  out 
with  the  Second  Wisconsin  Infantry,  and  both  were 
killed  in  Virginia. 

"Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 

IN  NORTHERN  MINNESOTA — FISHING  THROUGH  ICE. 

WE  named  him — Henry  Neaville  and  I.  We 
had  to  call  him  something  to  distinguish  him 
from  other  Indians  who  begged  about  our 
camp,  and  we  did  not  think  the  name  he  gave  as  his  own, 
Ah-mik-wash,  "a  beaver  house/'  described  him  as  well  as 
the  one  we  concocted,  which  means:  "He-who-takes-so- 
much-at-a-mouthful."  Ours  was  a  perfect  fit,  and  before 
long  I'll  tell  you  how  he  got  it. 

Mr.  James  McBride,  then  living  in  Potosi,  Wis.,  but 
who  lived  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  for  the  past  thirty  years, 
until  his  death,  which  occurred  last  March,  had  a  con- 
tract to  subdivide  some  townships  in  what  is  now  Crow 
Wing  county,  Minn.  The  township  lines  had  been  run, 
each  township  being  six  miles  square,  and  these  were  to 
be  crossed  by  lines  a  mile  apart  into  square  miles,  with 
the  half  miles  marked  on  both  north  and  east  lines.  The 
northern  line  was  near  where  Brainerd  now  stands,  the 
Mississippi  River  was  the  west  boundary,  and  the  survey 
took  in  the  village  of  Crow  Wing,  which  was  then  an 
Indian  trading  post. 

The  party  included  Thomas  Davies,  now  living  at 
British  Hollow,  Wis.;  Pierre  Gibbs,  of  Dubuque,  la.; 

Crosby,  I  think  originally  from  Boston;  Henry  R. 

Neaville,  and  the  writer,  both  of  Potosi.  We  started  by 
steamboat  from  Dubuque,  in  September,  1856 — I  forget 
the  day,  but  Tom  Davies  thinks  it  was  the  I2th — with 
two  horses,  wagon,  pack  saddles,  tent  and  camp  equipage 
and  a  supply  of  provisions  that  surprised  me:  Half  a 

268 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY.  269 

dozen  barrels  of  flour,  three  barrels  of  pork,  a  ten-gallon 
keg  of  molasses,  one-gallon  keg  of  vinegar,  sugar,  beans, 
rice,  grain  for  the  horses,  and  all  in  profusion.  At  St. 
Paul  half  the  provisions  were  stored,  and  we  took  a 
wagon  load,  all  but  the  driver  walking  up  the  big  military 
road  that  led  to  Fort  Ripley,  about  one  hundred  miles 
north  of  St.  Paul.  Our  first  night  out  we  camped  on 
Rum  River,  and  Henry  Neaville  tasted  it  and  said: 
"Hum!  it's  nothing  but  water."  From  Fort  Ripley  to 
Crow  Wing  the  road  was  not  so  good.  Making  a  base 
of  supplies  at  the  trading  post,  we  struck  into  the  woods, 
and  afterward  Tom  Davies  drove  back  to  St.  Paul  for  the 
food  left  there.  We  took  camp  and  grub  on  our  backs. 
At  the  place  to  begin  work  I  made  camp,  and  Neaville 
went  back  for  more  supplies.  There  was  about  four 
inches  of  snow,  and  this  lay  without  thaw  or  addition 
until  we  left  the  woods  late  in  December. 

I  had  expected  to  furnish  game  for  camp,  and  took 
my  rifle,  naturally  thinking  that  this  far-off  region 
abounded  in  game  as  the  Bad  Ax  country  did,  where  I 
spent  the  previous  winter.  I  lugged  that  rifle  for  two 
months,  and  only  killed  four  ruffed  grouse.  I  saw  one 
deer  and  two  rabbits,  but  did  not  get  a  shot  at  them. 
The  country  was  destitute  of  game.  Indians  swarmed 
all  over  it.  At  Crow  Wing  the  great  trail  from  Lake 
Superior  crossed  the  one  coming  down  from  the  Red 
River  of  the  North,  and  the  trading  post  was  visited  by 
scores  of  Indians  every  day  from  each  of  the  four 
branches  of  the  trails. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  out.  Henry  had  returned 
quickly,  as  we  were  not  yet  far  from  our  base,  and  I  was 
baking  bread  and  getting  dinner  for  two,  as  the  linemen 
had  theirs  with  them,  and  would  not  return  until  night, 
when  in  walked  the  American  whose  name  heads  this 


270  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

chapter.  As  before  stated,  that  was  not  his  name  then, 
but  he  didn't  know  it.  He  squatted  by  the  fire  and 
grunted:  "Bon  jour,  Nidgee,"  a  salutation  of  mixed 
French  and  Ojibway  that  all  those  Indians  used.  Henry 
returned  his  salute,  and  said  to  him  in  Ojibway  that  he 
was  welcome. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  speak  that?"  I  asked. 

"Off  up  the  Wisconsin  River  with  a  logging  party  one 
winter.  Why?" 

"Nothing,  only  I  was  surprised,  that's  all.  If  I'd 
known  you  spoke  it  we  could  have  knocked  lots  of  fun 
out  of  your  brother  Frank  on  our  fishing  trips.  But 
you  have  made  this  man  welcome,  and  that  he  will  inter- 
pret to  mean  free  feeding,  perhaps  all  winter,  and  as  I  am 
camp  keeper,  McBride  will  ask  questions  if  we  feed  too 
many.  He  doesn't  like  an  Indian,  and  told  me  not  to 
have  them  hanging  around  camp,  so  don't  do  this  any 
more." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry;  "I  spoke  without  thinking. 
If  there's  lots  of  pork  boiled  let's  fill  this  fellow  up  and 
see  how  much  he  can  hold." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  boiled  enough  pork  for  all  hands 
to  have  cold  to-night,  but  if  his  guest  ate  half  of  it  I 
would  boil  more. 

I  made  all  ready,  and  our  aboriginal  American  an- 
nounced himself  as  Ah-mik-wash,  or  "Beaver  House." 
Henry  remarked:  "He  differs  somewhat  from  a  beaver 
house,  and  as  to  the  last  part  of  his  name  I'll  bet  he 
hasn't  washed  in  ten  years." 

"Henry,  keep  quiet!"  Then  tapping  my  breast  I 
said:  "Kego-e-kay,"  and  then  touching  Henry,  intro- 
duced him  as  Ke-tim-ish-ke  (He-is-lazy).  Old  Beaver 
House  grunted,  and  I  served  an  equal  portion  of  bread, 
baked  beans  and  pork  to  each.  There  was  enough  for 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY.  271 

Henry  and  me  at  the  first  serving,  and  long  before  we 
had  finished  I  piled  another  big  chunk  on  the  plate  of  our 
guest. 

"Henry/'  said  I,  "your  friend's  doctor  has  recom- 
mended him  to  take  something  for  his  appetite,  and  he's 
struck  the  place  to  get  the  prescription  put  up.  Just  see 
what  he  takes  at  a  mouthful,  and  how  he  swallows  it 
without  sticking  a  tooth  in  it!  I'll  limit  him  to  the  pork 
and  bread,  for  I'll  be  dingswizzled  if  I'll  boil  and  bake 
any  more  beans!" 

Henry  thought  a  minute — he  was  a  meditative  man 
and  therefore  a  born  angler — and  said:  "He  is  filling  his 
beaver  house  for  the  winter,  but  he  can  swallow  chunks 
of  pork  that  would  choke  a  deerhound.  He  must  have  a 
new  name.  These  Injuns  don't  get  a  name  early  in  life 
as  we  do,  and  when  they  get  one  it  never  sticks  through 
as  ours  do,  and  we  must  name  him  anew.  See  that  last 
chunk  go  down !  Give  him  what  there  is  left  of  the  pork 
and  put  the  rest  away,  and  let's  see  him  get  away  with 
what  you  had  provided  for  six  men  to-night,  in  addition 
to  what  he  has  eaten." 

I  will  publicly  confess  to  being  a  sinner  if  that  Ojib- 
way,  or  "Chippewa,"  as  his  name  has  been  corrupted,  did 
not  clean  up  every  bit  of  the  pork.  There  was  no  such 
discrimination  between  the  component  parts  as  was  made 
by  Jack  Spratt  and  his  wife.  He  removed  the  plate  from 
his  lap  and  said:  "Koo-koosh,  nish-ish-shin,"  or  "Pork 
very  good." 

While  our  guest  sat  by  the  fire  in  full  enjoyment  of 
physical  comfort  Henry  and  I  concocted  the  new  name 
for  him,  and  this  is  the  way  we  christened  him.  I  said, 
leaving  out  as  much  of  his  tongue  as  possible:  "You  no 
Beaver  House  no  more,  you  Tay-bun-ane-je-gay"  (He- 
who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful).  This  name,  which 


272  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

we  evolved  in  a  spirit  of  ridicule,  was  accepted  by  our 
simple-minded  friend  as  a  tribute  to  his  prowess  after  he 
had  scanned  our  faces  and  found  no  trace  of  levity,  and 
he  was  so  known,  not  only  by  us,  but  by  his  tribe. 

He  had  caught  Henry's  name,  and  smiled  as  much  as 
an  Indian  can  smile,  but  seemed  in  doubt  about  mine. 
Perhaps  my  pronunciation  was  at  fault,  for  "kego"  means 
fish,  and  also  is  a  negative,  as  "do  not,"  "never,"  "beware 
of  saying,"  etc.  Henry  said:  "We  have  many  words 
which  mean  the  same  thing,  and  so  have  they.  Old 
Swallow-'em-slick  is  in  doubt.  Show  him  your  fish  lines 
and  he  will  know  that  you  are  a  fisherman." 

When  our  guest  had  seen  my  tackle  he  pointed  to  me 
in  pride  at  his  understanding  and  touched  my  shoulder, 
saying:  "Kego-e-kay."  Then  he  proceeded  to  tell  what 
great  pike,  "kinoje,"  could  be  caught  in  a  small  lake  a 
short  distance  away,  and  we  arranged  to  try  it  next  day 
after  the  men  had  gone  on  the  line. 

The  ice  was  not  thick,  but  would  bear  us  well,  for  it 
was  about  the  last  of  September  or  the  first  of  October 
in  that  cold  country,  and  this  reminds  me  that  McBride 
wanted  to  know  about  the  winters  in  that  region  and 
asked  a  half-breed  who  spoke  English  how  the  weather 
was  likely  to  be.  He  replied:  "October,  he  pooty  cole; 
November  he  cole  as  de  dev';  and  December,  he  col'er 
'an ."  I  had  heard  the  name  mentioned  as  a  com- 
parison for  heat  frequently,  and  wondered  what  kind  of 
a  place  the  half-breed  thought  it  might  be.  The  snow 
had  fallen  since  the  lake  froze,  and  we  could  not  see  the 
depth.  I  asked  old  Mouthful  where  there  were  springs 
and  he  showed  us  one,  where  we  caught  a  lot  of  minnows. 

We  cut  holes  and  rigged  about  a  dozen  lines  with  tip- 
ups  and  waited.  The  holes  froze  over,  and  we  cut  them 
open,  but  no  fish  came  to  our  lures.  It  was  noon,  and 


TA  Y-B  UN-ANE-JE-GA  Y.  273 

not  a  pike,  big  or  little,  had  sampled  our  minnows.  We 
were  like  "Ye  Sunberrye  Fysher,"  our  tackle  was  cor- 
rect, but  the  fish  were  either  absent  or — something  else. 
It  was  time  to  eat. 

I  asked  Henry:  "Do  you  think  that  old  Mouthful,  as 
you  call  him  in  shorthand,  has  brought  us  out  here  on  a 
fool's  errand?  This  lake  should  contain  pike,  lake  trout, 
brook  trout  or  perch,  but  we  get  no  bites.  The  water 
is  not  very  cold,  or  the  ice  would  be  thicker;  the  springs 
below  keep  the  ice  from  getting  too  thick.  Perhaps  our 
friend  is  only  playing  it  on  us  for  his  grub." 

"If  I  was  sure  of  that,"  said  Henry,  "I  would  advise 
that  we  leave  him,  and  go  back  and  eat  ours  at  camp,  or 
sit  down  here  and  eat,  and  only  give  a  little  bite,  so  that 
he  could  not  take  so  much  at  a  mouthful." 

The  luncheon  was  fairly  divided.  One  of  the  tip-ups 
showed  the  flag,  and  Henry  jumped  and  ran  for  it.  The 
hook  was  bare ;  a  minnow  had  been  taken.  Old  Mouth- 
ful had  probably  divined  our  thoughts,  for  he  arose  and 
said:  "Kego-e-kay-e-mah,"  there  are  fish  there.  We  let 
our  lines  lower  down,  but  got  no  fish.  It  was  time  to  go 
back  to  camp  to  prepare  for  the  hungry  linemen.  Our 
new  friend  went  with  us ;  it  was  evident  that  he  was  fond 
of  our  company — or  our  pork — it  was  not  easy  to  tell 
which.  He  saw  the  men  come  in  and  eat  their  dinner, 
but  got  no  invitation  to  join,  for  our  chief  did  not  wish 
to  encourage  Indians  to  hang  round  the  camp.  Two 
such  men  as  He-who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful  would 
breed  a  famine  in  our  commissary  in  a  short  time.  They 
would  eat  more  than  our  six  healthy  white  men,  who 
had  the  abnormal  appetite  that  comes  with  a  life  in  the 
woods  and  active  exercise  in  cold  weather.  The  farm- 
er's expression,  "I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hired  man,"  fell 
short  of  our  appetites. 


274:  MEN  /  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

We  had  a  tin  bake  oven,  made  in  flat  sections  for 
packing  on  a  man's  back,  which,  when  set  up  before  a, 
camp-fire,  flared  out  so  as  to  reflect  the  heat  from  top  and 
bottom  on  a  bread  pan,  in  which  we  not  only  baked 
bread,  but  beans,  pork  and  'coons.  Imagine  a  yawning 
front  of  eighteen  inches  sloping  to  a  back  of  five  inches, 
in  the  middle  of  which  was  the  pan,  and  you  have  the 
idea.  Mixing  soda  and  cream  of  tartar  with  the  flour 
and  then  wetting  it  up — well!  If  you  don't  believe  that 
I  made  the  best  bread  that  was  ever  baked  on  this  planet 
just  write  to  my  compagnon  du  voyage,  Thomas  Davies. 
Mark  the  letter  "private,"  because  Tom  has  been  married 
since  that  time,  and  he  might  not  wish  Mrs.  Davies  to  see 
his  reply;  he  is  eating  her  biscuit  now.  Married  men 
will  appreciate  this  caution. 

Four  men  went  on  the  line — McBride,  the  chief  or 
compass  man;  one  axe  man  to  clear  a  place  for  him  to 
see  through  and  to  blaze  the  line,  and  two  chain  men. 
There  was  then  an  extra  man  to  bring  supplies  from  our 
base,  and  he  was  in  camp  with  me  a  great  deal.  Henry 
Neaville  did  most  of  this  work,  because  he  was  a  very 
good  woodsman,  and  could  find  me  when  I  moved  camp. 
Sometimes  we  stayed  several  days  in  a  place,  and  lines 
would  be  run  in  all  directions.  In  the  morning  I  would 
get  an  order  to  "Keep  camp  here  to-day,"  or  to  move 
it.  If  moved,  it  might  be  "two  miles  east  and  one  mile 
north,"  and  then  before  sundown  I  would  clang  the  cow 
bell,  which  we  sometimes  used  on  the  horses  when  hob- 
bled. We  used  the  horses  to  pack  our  camp  at  first 
while  in  the  country  of  solid  ground,  but  sent  them  to 
Crow  Wing  when  we  got  into  the  swampy  country, 
where  the  springy  swamps  were  frozen  enough  to  permit 
a  man  to  travel  safely  without  snowshoes,  but  would  not 
hold  the  greater  weight  of  a  horse  with  its  smaller  foot. 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY.  275 

It  would  have  been  almost  impossible  to  run  these  lines 
before  the  swamps  were  frozen.  I  saw  corner  stakes  set 
and  "witness  trees"  marked,  and  when  the  man  removed 
his  hand  from  the  top  of  the  stake  it  fell.  There  were 
no  stones  to  be  found  for  markers;  but  the  trees  told  the 
story,  and  the  exact  place  of  the  stake  could  be  found. 

I  can't  say  when  it  was  that  we  met  a  train  of  Red 
River  settlers  on  their  way  from  Pembina — perhaps  it 
was  on  our  way  up,  but  it  was  an  event.  We  heard  the 
creaking  of  their  carts  for  at  least  ten  miles  before  we 
met.  There  were  eighteen  carts  in  the  train  drawn  by 
ponies,  and  not  a  bit  of  iron  in  the  whole  outfit!  Not 
even  a  nail.  The  wheels  had  wooden  tires  held  by 
wooden  pins,  and  if  one  gave  out  there  was  the  forest  to 
furnish  material.  Some  of  the  carts  had  a  ham  rind 
under  the  axle,  but  that  was  a  foolish  concession  to  the 
god  of  silence.  The  others  shrieked  and  wailed  like  lost 
spirits,  and  miles  before  we  met  them  we  were  wondering 
what  could  make  such  unearthly  sounds.  We  halted 
and  talked  with  the  priest  who  was  in  charge  of  the  ex- 
pedition, and  seemed  to  be  the  only  man  in  the  party  who 
could  speak  English.  The  other  men  were  French,  In- 
dians and  half-breeds,  and  they  spoke  such  a  patois  of 
mixed  Ojibway  and  Canadian  French  that  Crosby 
couldn't  understand  a  word,  and  he  spoke  Boston  French 
fluently.  The  priest  was  a  jolly  old  fellow,  a  well-read 
man  who,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  wasting  his  life  among  a 
very  dirty  lot;  but  if  he  was  contented  we  should  be.  I 
listened  to  him  talk  of  his  mission  work,  and  of  his  hope 
that  there  would  be  a  weekly  mail  up  from  St.  Paul  into 
his  frozen  region  before  many  years.  His  people  had 
sold  their  furs;  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  had  a 
monopoly  of  the  trade  in  British  America,  and  they 
brought  nothing  to  sell.  They  were  going  to  St.  Paul 


276  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

to  buy  coffee,  sugar,  clothing,  garden  seeds  and  other 
things;  but  why  they  didn't  buy  of  the  company  I  don't 
know.  His  great  good  nature  and  hopefulness  made 
him  very  interesting,  for  he  was  a  good  and  lovable  old 
man.  Ah,  me!  If  the  camera  and  dry  plates  had  been 
invented  in  those  days,  and  I  had  owned  an  outfit,  what 
treasures  I  would  have  to-day! 

Tom  Davies  went  to  St.  Paul  for  the  rest  of  the  pro- 
visions early  in  October,  and  was  gone  ten  days.  Henry 
froze  both  his  feet  by  riding  on  the  hind  end  of  the  wagon 
with  his  feet  hanging  out  after  he  had  met  Tom  at  Crow 
Wing,  for  we  were  still  in  a  country  where  the  wagon 
could  be  used.  It  was  night  and  Henry  had  told  Tom 
that  Crosby  was  lost  in  the  woods,  and  he  hurried  on  at 
once  because  there  were  but  three  men  on  the  line.  They 
reached  camp  while  we  were  breakfasting,  but  Henry 
could  not  stand.  He  had  foolishly  worn  leather  boots, 
while  the  rest  had  shoe-packs  of  elk-skin,  soft  and  warm 
in  dry  weather.  This  reminds  me  to  say  that  the  In- 
dians about  us  wore  moccasins  of  buffalo,  which  cost  one 
dollar  a  pair  at  Crow  Wing,  but  did  not  wear  well.  After 
the  men  were  gone  on  the  line  I  took  Henry's  boots  off, 
and  put  his  feet  into  snow  and  by  chafing  them  got  the 
blood  started.  He  joked  about  my  cutting  his  feet  off, 
and  his  mfssing  the  dancing  that  winter,  as  they  swelled 
so  that  there  seemed  to  be  danger;  but  in  a  week  he  was 
able  to  walk,  and  by  cutting  one  boot  for  a  favorite  toe 
he  was  soon  ready  for  duty. 

I  kept  up  half-hourly  rifle  shots  and  cow-bell  ringing 
for  Crosby,  and  he  came  into  camp,  having  been  out  one 
night  without  matches  or  blankets.  He  had  kept  from 
freezing  by  walking,  and  had  got  turned  around  and  fol- 
lowed the  blazed  lines  the  wrong  way.  Hunger  had 
made  him  colder,  and  he  had  thrown  a  stick  at  a  bird, 


TA  Y-BUN-ANE-JE-GA  Y.  277 

probably  a  Canada  jay,  hoping  to  kill  it  and  eat  it  raw. 
He  had  an  appetite  of  great  length,  breadth  and  thick- 
ness, one  worthy  of  the  man  whose  name  heads  this 
article. 

Gibbs  was  very  fond  of  staying  in  camp  with  me  when 
Henry  went  on  the  line  and  he  could  do  it.  An  excuse 
to  mend  his  trousers  or  other  clothing  served.  He  was 
the  youngest  of  the  party  and  fresh  from  school.  He 
knew  all  about  Indians,  for  he  had  read  about  them,  but 
was  curious  to  study  them  in  the  woods.  He  was  a  gold 
mine  to  old  Mouthful  or  any  other  Indian.  When  he 
offered  a  pipeful  of  tobacco  he  handed  over  a  whole  plug 
of  Navy  or  such  part  of  one  as  he  had,  and  when  the 
Indian  cut  a  pipeful  and  kept  the  rest  Gibbs  thought  that 
he  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  but  couldn't  ask  for  its  return. 
He  continually  gave  me  advice  on  the  subject  of  getting 
on  with  them,  and  I  enjoyed  it.  Once  as  we  sat  down 
to  a  midday  bite  Gibbs  passed  the  pan  of  hot  biscuit  to 
old  Mouthful,  who  dumped  the  lot  in  his  dirty  blanket. 
I  had  frequently  told  him  that  an  Indian  always  under- 
stood that  what  you  handed  to  him  was  his,  but  there  the 
biscuit  were. 

"Explain  it  to  him,"  said  Gibbs;  "I  can't  speak  his 
lingo,  but  we've  got  to  have  some  bread  for  our  dinner, 
and  I  don't  really  fancy  getting  it  back  after  he  has 
handled  it  and  had  it  in  that  blanket." 

"Gibbs,"  I  replied,  "there  is  no  need  to  explain  it. 
You  gave  them  to  him;  of  course,  you  didn't  intend  to 
give  him  the  whole  output  of  the  bakery,  but  you  did. 
Now  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go  and  take  what  you 
want  without  any  more  ceremony;  replevin  them;  use 
force  if  necessary,  but  get  back  our  biscuit.  We  need 
not  eat  the  outside  of  them;  there's  a  lot  of  good  bread 
inside  which  his  dirty  hands  haven't  touched." 


278  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

He  looked  at  the  bread  and  then  said :  "I  don't  like  to 
be  impolite  to  him.  Why  can't  you  tell  him  that  it's  all 
a  mistake;  what's  the  word  for  mistake  in  his  patter?" 

"Oh,  just  say  to  him:  'Nidgee,  pungee  iskoodah 
wabo,'  and  it  will  be  all  right."  This  was  an  invitation 
to  old  Mouthful  to  have  some  whiskey,  an  article  which 
we  did  not  have,  but  this  was  my  joke  on  Gibbs. 

The  red  man  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  our  talk, 
which  he  could  not  understand,  but  my  last  words  must 
have  had  a  familiar  sound,  for  he  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  me. 

Gibbs  arose  and  repeated  the  words  in  his  purest 
Chippewa.  Old  Mouthful  also  arose,  as  befitted  such  an 
important  occasion,  grunted,  shook  hands  and  replied  in 
fairly  good  Ojibway  that  he  "didn't  care  if  he  did." 

"What's  that  he  says?"  asked  Gibbs. 

"He  says  that  he  begs  your  pardon,  and  hopes  that  he 
has  not  offended;  and  he  begs  that  you  will  take  the 
bread,  and  give  him  such  a  portion  as  will  not  rob  your- 
self." The  situation  was  growing  interesting.  As  the 
interpreter  I  had  the  game  in  my  hands. 

Gibbs  struck  an  attitude  and  exclaimed :  "Now,  by  my 
halidome!  Our  guest  is  a  gentleman  of  right  courtly 
manners.  I  tell  you,  Fred,  you  don't  know  these  people 
if  you  have  been  around  a  few  of  them  long  enough  to 
pick  up  some  of  their  talk.  I've  read  up  on  'em,  Scool- 
craft,  Cooper  and  these  authors;  have  studied  'em, and  the 
noble  red  man  has  all  the  high-bred  instincts  of  the  most 
chivalrous  knight,  but  these  men  who  come  among  them 
to  trade  are  not  sufficiently  educated  to  see  and  appre- 
ciate it."  He  then  took  up  the  bread,  broke  off  a  third 
of  it  and  gave  it  to  our  guest. 

Old  Mouthful  looked  surprised.  Evidently  he  didn't 
mind  the  bread  as  long  as  there  was  whiskey  in  prospect. 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY.  279 

After  a  pause  he  looked  at  Gibbs  in  a  way  that  the  Gov- 
ernor of  North  Carolina  might  have  done  at  that  historic 
meeting  with  the  Governor  of  South  Carolina,  and  mere- 
ly remarked:  "Pungee  'scutah  wabo?" 

" What's  that  he  says?"  asked  Gibbs. 

He  asked  you  for  some  whiskey,  and  he  thinks  you 
promised  him  some  in  exchange  for  the  bread.  I  begin 
to  think  so  myself,  since  I  compare  your  pronunciation 
of  Ojibway  with  his  and  mine.  There  are  some  very 
nice  shades  of  inflection  in  Ojibway  which  make  a  word 
mean  several  things.  You  have  told  me  how  revengeful 
an  Indian  is,  and  you  have  mortally  offended  this  man, 
and  unless  you  give  him  what  you  have  promised  it  may 
go  hard  with  you — and,  in  fact,  with  all  our  party,  for  we 
are  only  six." 

"What  will  I  do?  I  haven't  any  whiskey,  and  there's 
none  in  camp." 

"He  won't  believe  that.  He  has  seen  a  ten-gallon 
keg  of  molasses,  but  you  don't  suppose  for  a  moment  he 
believes  it  to  be  molasses?  The  kegs  he  has  seen  with 
white  men  have  always  contained  whiskey.  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  square  it  with  him.  You've  got 
yourself  into  this  scrape,  but  I'll  help  you  out  if  I  can." 

I  told  our  guest  that  Gibbs  had  not  understood,  "go- 
win  kendun,"  but  that  instead  of  whiskey  he  meant  to 
offer  tobacco.  That  was  satisfactory — it  had  to  be — and 
Gibbs  gave  up  a  whole  plug  of  Navy,  and  there  was  peace 
in  the  land.  Gibbs  felt  that  I  had  successfully  arbitrated 
the  case  and  averted  a  calamity.  What  our  guest 
thought  was  impossible  to  tell,  but  Henry  and  I  enjoyed 
the  thing  by  ourselves,  and  afterward  Henry  guyed  Gibbs 
about  it  at  every  chance. 

We  had  left  civilization  early  in  a  Presidential  cam- 
paign. The  Democratic  party  had  nominated  James 


280  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Buchanan,  and  the  newly-formed  Republican  party  had 
named  John  C.  Fremont  as  its  candidate.  Our  little 
party  of  six  was  divided  in  its  choice,  and  in  the  evenings 
the  argument  waxed  warm,  but  always  in  respectful 
shape.  The  date  for  the  election  had  passed,  but  we 
knew  nothing  of  the  result.  But  what  hundreds  of 
bushels  of  oysters  were  bet!  It  would  have  required  sev- 
eral smacks  to  have  carried  all  these  oysters  if  the  stews, 
fries  and  raws  had  all  been  eaten.  The  fact  is  that  no 
record  of  bets  was  kept,  and  each  night  the  old  score 
was  forgotten  and  new  bets  were  made.  When  we  got 
back  in  the  vicinity  of  Crow  Wing — about  December 
20 — we  first  heard  the  result,  and  the  Buchanan  men  were 
jubilant.  It  served  us  well  as  a  topic  of  interest,  for  it 
was  not  a  jolly  crowd,  and  what  it  would  have  done  for 
amusement  without  the  election  is  a  question. 

Unless  Henry  or  Gibbs  was  in  camp  I  did  not  dare 
leave  it.  These  Indians  might  be  honest  enough,  but  in 
our  case  it  was  well  not  to  take  any  risks  on  our  pro- 
visions. One  day,  while  out  with  my  rifle,  I  came  to  a 
lake  of  which  I  had  a  glimpse  through  the  trees.  Stand- 
ing awhile,  there  came  a  faint  whining  sound,  which  I  at 
once  diagnosed  as  the  talk  of  a  bear.  Here  was  a  chance 
to  get  a  shot  at  bruin,  and  perhaps  some  fresh  meat. 
Carefully  looking  at  the  cap  on  the  rifle,  I  cautiously 
worked  down  into  the  marshy  ground  and  underbrush  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  The  marsh  was  frozen,  or 
the  passage  would  have  been  impossible.  The  sound 
came  from  one  direction,  but  did  not  seem  to  increase  as 
I  advanced;  but  it  was  a  bear,  sure.  Getting  near  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  as  could  be  seen  off  to  the  right,  the 
game  must  be  close,  and  that  creepy,  trembling  feeling 
came  on.  I  halted  and  listened;  it  was  but  a  few  feet 
away.  Through  the  brush  a  dark  object  could  be  seen 


TA  Y-BUN-ANE-JE-GA  Y.  281 

on  a  log,  and  the  whining  kept  up.  If  it  was  a  bear  I 
wanted  to  see  how  it  stood  in  order  to  plant  the  bullet 
right ;  but  in  stepping  one  side  I  made  a  slight  noise,  and 
an  Indian  boy  about  six  years  old  turned  around.  He 
dropped,  crawled  behind  the  log,  and  then  jumped  into 
the  brush  and  out  of  sight.  Probably  it  was  the  first 
white  man  he  had  ever  seen.  Then  I  knew  that  what 
I  mistook  for  the  whining  of  a  bear  was  the  boy's  low 
singing.  The  story  he  told  his  mother  would  be  interest- 
ing, if  we  knew  it. 

Getting  back  to  the  higher  land  again,  I  sat  awhile  on 
a  log  enjoying  the  clear,  cold  air  and  the  glimpse  of  the 
frozen  lake.  After  awhile  there  was  another  sound  of 
life,  and  I  saw  a  sight  which  I  never  have  seen  recorded 
by  any  writer  of  the  woods.  Below,  in  an  open  spot  in 
the  underbrush,  perhaps  of  twenty  feet  diameter,  and  not 
over  twenty  feet  away,  came  a  troop  of  about  thirty  ruffed 
grouse  or  partridges  of  the  Eastern  States,  and  they  were 
clucking  and  chattering  at  a  great  rate.  The  males  were 
strutting  with  tails  spread  out  like  turkey  cocks,  or  more 
like  tame  pigeons.  I  was  in  plain  sight,  and  tried  not  to 
breathe  for  fear  of  disturbing  them,  for  it  was  the  treat 
of  a  lifetime.  Among  these  birds  was  a  male,  I  had  no 
doubt  the  same  species,  which  was  black.  Of  course  I 
can't  at  this  late  day,  and  in  view  of  my  very  slight  knowl- 
edge of  such  things  at  that  time,  be  certain  that  this  was  a 
case  of  melanism  in  Bonasa,  but  I  believe  it. 

Later  I  saw  several  ptarmigan,  which  I  then  thought 
to  be  white  ruffed  grouse,  but  did  not  kill  any.  Some- 
thing alarmed  the  partridges,  and  they  flew  into  the  trees, 
and  I  picked  off  three.  The  shots  brought  an  Indian,  a 
stranger,  who  begged  for  a  bird,  and  I  gave  him  one. 
These  men  were  persistent  beggars;  they  thought  every 
white  man  was  wealthy.  They  seemed  to  roam  the 


282  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

woods  without  either  gun  or  bows,  and  I  afterward 
learned  that  they  lived  mainly  on  fish,  which  they  dried 
for  winter.  No  doubt  they  knew  how  scarce  game  was, 
and  that  it  was  useless  to  hunt  for  it.  I  was  greatly  dis- 
appointed; I  had  left  the  East  two  years  before  because 
of  the  scarcity  of  game,  and  here  I  was  in  a  primeval 
forest  where  there  was  no  game,  hardly  a  rabbit.  Dis- 
appointed hardly  expresses  it.  Why,  we  could  go  out 
from  Albany  in  that  day,  in  most  any  direction  during 
the  winter,  and  bag  a  few  ruffed  grouse,  some  rabbits 
and  a  squirrel  or  two;  I  began  to  think  the  far  West  a 
fraud;  Minnesota  was  then  "far  West."  The  biggest  lot 
of  game  I  saw  in  northern  Minnesota  that  winter  was 
four  young  'coons  that  Tom  Davies  killed  with  an  axe 
as  they  huddled  near  a  tree  on  an  extra  cold  morning.  I 
parboiled  and  baked  them,,  and — oh,  my! 

Our  friend,  who  possibly  might  bite  off  more  than  he 
could  chew,  but  never  more  than  he  could  swallow,  had 
ceased  to  be  interesting.  He  found  our  camp  at  every 
move,  and  seemed  to  regard  himself  as  part  of  it,  or  at 
least  one  of  the  volunteer  staff.  Neaville  and  I  paid  lit- 
tle attention  to  him,  but  his  eyes  brightened  when  he 
found  Gibbs  in  camp.  Gibbs  was  curious  about  him, 
wanted  to  learn  his  language,  and  would  touch  objects 
and  ask  their  names  by  looking  up  and  saying,  "Ojib- 
wa?"  Then,  of  course,  he  could  do  no  less  than  "divvy" 
on  pork  and  tobacco — a  very  good  arrangement  for  his 
friend.  Speaking  of  tobacco,  we  once  found  old  Mouth- 
ful with  the  native  article,  the  "killi-ki-nic,"  or  inner  bark 
of  the  red  willow.  Henry  and  I  tried  once.  It  was  most 
pungent,  and  I  can  only  compare  it  to  smoking  rattan 
and  elm  root,  which  we  schoolboys  used  before  we  as- 
pired to  tobacco,  and  it  almost  burned  our  tongues  off. 
I  think  some  of  the  old  boys,  and  perhaps  some  of  the 


TA  Y-BUN-ANE-JE-GA  Y.  283 

younger  ones,  will  recall  their  brave  attempts  to  smoke 
things,  no  matter  how  pungent,  which  did  not  upset  and 
invert  their  youthful  stomachs.  Fifty  years  ago  most 
boys  in  America  thought  it  smart  to  chew  tobacco,  and 
they  acquired  the  disgusting  habit;  but  the  younger  ones 
would  get  licorice  ball,  and  spit  in  imitation  of  a  tobacco 
chewer,  and  then  some  unbeliever  would  challenge  him 
with,  "That  ain't  tobacco  you're  a-chewin';  it's  on'y  lick- 
orish!"  Yes,  I  was  a  boy  once. 

These  Northern  Indians  must  smoke,  but  tobacco 
was  an  exotic  which  positively  declined  to  grow  so  far 
North,  and,  like  the  boys,  they  found  a  substitute.  After 
they  found  the  Southern  weed  it  was  too  costly  to  use 
alone,  and  they  mixed  it  with  killi-ki-nic  merely  for 
economy;  but  preferred  pure  tobacco  when  they  could 
get  it. 

"This  reminds  me."  In  my  young  days,  when  I  was 
particularly  fond  of  negro  minstrelsy  and  burlesquing 
things,  and  shortly  after  the  time  of  which  I  write,  Long- 
fellow published  "Hiawatha,"  a  poem  which  I  never  tire 
of  reading,  but  one  whose  meter  urgently  invites  bur- 
lesque; and  with  hundreds  of  others  I  essayed  it.  Else- 
where I  have  said  that  some  people  seemed  shocked  at 
seeing  a  thing  which  they  love  burlesqued.  That  means 
that  their  sense  of  humor  is  only  partially  developed. 
Then  and  to-day  I  regard  "Hiawatha"  as  the  great  Amer- 
ican epic,  but  I  wrote: 

"Should  you  ask  me  whence  I  got  them, 

Got  these  yarns  of  old  James  River; 

With  their  flavor  of  tobacco, 

Of  the  stinkweed,  the  mundungus, 

And  the  pipe  of  Old  Virginny, 

And  the  twangle  of  the  banjo; 

Of  the  banjo,  the  goatskinnit, 


284  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

And  the  fiddle,  the  catgutta, 
And  the  noisy  marrow-bonum, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you: 
By  one  John-smith  they  were  written. 
John-smith,  soldier,  sailor  and  explorer, 
Editor  of  his  own  adventures 
In  the  land  of  Po-ca-hon-tas, 
In  the  realm  of  Pow-ha-tan, 
Where  old  John-smith  had  a  big  time, 
Filled  the  red  man  full  of  whisky, 
Stole  his  daughter  and  sailed  eastward 
To  the  far-off  land  of  John-bull,"  etc. 

There  were  yards  and  yards  of  this  stuff,  but  we  will 
content  ourselves  with  that.  It's  easy  to  write — any  boy 
can  do  it — and  the  grandest  of  themes  are  the  easiest  to 
burlesque.  That  is  a  fact  that  human  owls  fail  to  under- 
stand. What  is  easier  to  travesty  than  "Chronicles?" 
And  it  is  often  done  without  intending  irreverence;  the 
humor  of  the  thing  is  the  only  thought  of  the  writer ;  but 
"a  jest's  prosperity,"  etc. 

Here  you  see  the  evil  effect  of  tobacco,  how  it  will 
lead  a  man  off  the  track  to  talk  about  Pocahontas  and 
other  irrelevant  things.  It's  fortunate  for  some  one  that 
my  pen  did  not  go  off  after  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  the 
story  of  his  weighing  the  smoke  which  came  from  Queen 
Elizabeth's  pipe,  but  every  schoolboy  knows  all  about 
that. 

We  found  another  thing  that  the  Indians  used ;  it  was 
the  "man-o-min,"  or  wild  rice.  This  is  mighty  good  feed 
for  wild  ducks  or  Indians,  but,  as  they  ate  it,  there  was  a 
grit  in  it  which  detracted  from  its  value  to  men  who  don't 
like  to  eat  the  hulls  of  grain.  Hardly  a  night  but  half  a 
dozen  Indians  slept  by  our  fire  and  cooked  their  wild  rice 
over  it,  but  if  they  could  get  our  Southern  rice  they  were 
glad.  It's  many  a  day  since  I  ate  the  man-o-min,  but  the 


TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY.  285 

impression  now  is  that  if  it  had  been  properly  hulled  it 
would  have  been  good. 

Along  the  streams  we  saw  where  the  wild  rice  had 
been  tied  up  in  bunches  to  keep  it  from  bending  over  and 
being  eaten  by  wild  ducks  while  it  was  in  the  milky  state 
or  after.  Then,  later  in  the  year,  the  women  paddled  up 
the  stream,  bent  the  heads  of  rice  over,  and  with  a  light 
stick  threshed  them  into  a  canoe. 

Gibbs  was  always  curious  to  taste  their  food;  he  had 
the  true  instincts  of  an  investigator,  and  got  more  infor- 
mation in  that  line  than  we,  who  were  more  cautious  of 
getting  too  intimate  with  the  aborigines,  for  fear  of  our 
stock  of  provisions. 

We  came  out  all  right  on  the  rations,  and  had  all  we 
wished  to  use ;  but  the  story  of  the  winter  is  too  long  for 
one  telling. 


WE-NEN-GWAY. 

A  MUSKRAT  FEAST — THE   TRIP   HOME   ON   THE   ICE. 

AFTER  a  while  we  got  into  a  swampy  region  which 
was  frozen,  or  we  couldn't  have  run  lines 
through  it.  Lakes  were  frequent,  and  we  saw 
many  wigwams  where  there  were  high  frames  for  drying 
fish.  Crotches  about  ten  feet  high  held  poles,  and  across 
these  were  laid  others,  forming  a  rude  platform,  on  which 
the  fish  were  dried  for  winter  use.  As  near  as  I  can  re- 
member the  fish  were  whitefish,  lake  trout  and  either  pike 
or  mascalonge,  for  I  then  knew  as  little  of  the  differences 
between  the  two  latter  species  as  an  Adirondack  guide 
or  the  average  fish  dealer  does.  Now  I  could  trade 
bread,  flour,  pork  or  sugar  for  an  occasional  fish,  but 
McBride  always  wanted  to  be  assured  that  they  had  been 
thoroughly  scrubbed,  for  he  was  a  little  shy  of  eating  any- 
thing which  an  Indian  had  handled. 

Our  old  friend,  whom  we  had  named  He-who-takes- 
so-much-at-a-mouthful,  still  followed  us  up,  and  I  had 
become  more  than  tired  of  him,  and  was  wondering  how 
he  could  "be  shook."  Some  little  things  had  been 
missed,  such  as  forks  and  spoons;  there  was  no  evidence 
that  he  had  taken  them,  but  when  I  once  left  a  jackknife 
sticking  in  a  log  where  I  had  been  using  it  and  it  was 
gone  an  hour  afterward,  I  suspected  Mouthful,  because 
he  was  the  only  man  around  camp  beside  myself.  I  said 
nothing  about  it,  but  resolved  to  keep  an  eye  out  for  him. 
If,  after  feeding  him  for  over  a  month,  and  sharing  my 
tobacco  with  him,  he  would  steal  from  me,  I  wanted  to 
know  it.  I  began  to  hate  him,  and  he  soon  saw  that  he 
was  not  welcome;  but  he  rejoiced  when  Gibbs  was  in 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  287 

camp.  One  day  when  Gibbs  stayed  in  I  put  a  new 
handle  in  a  little  belt  axe,  and  then  began  sandpapering 
a  handle  for  the  larger  camp  axe,  for  we  had  extra  ones. 
The  little  axe  lay  by  the  fire  and  I  was  sitting  in  the  door 
of  the  tent,  when  old  Mouthful  came  up  and  grunted  his 
salute,  and  sat  down  so  that  his  blanket  covered  the  axe. 
I  noted  the  fact,  and  said  to  Gibbs:  "Go  talk  to  him;  give 
him  a  pipeful  of  tobacco,  anything  to  keep  his  mind  off 
his  appetite,  and  when  I  smooth  up  this  axe  helve  I'll 
play  you  a  game  of  euchre." 

While  we  were  playing  cards  old  Mouthful  arose, 
wrapped  his  blanket  about  him,  and  walked  off.  The 
belt  axe  was  gone.  I  called  after  him,  "Nidgee !"  several 
times,  but  he  didn't  look  around,  and  I  grabbed  the  axe 
helve  and  started  after  him.  He  was  in  a  well-worn 
path,  bordered  with  prickly  ash,  and  when  he  found  me 
close  behind  him  he  sprang  into  the  bush,  but  not  in  time 
to  escape  a  whack  on  the  shoulders  with  the  hickory 
helve,  and  he  dropped  the  hatchet.  When  I  returned  to 
camp  Gibbs  was  indignant.  Said  he:  "If  I  was  where  I 
could  get  out  of  these  woods  I'd  go.  You  are  always 
knocking  the  Indians  around,  shoving  them  out  of  the 
way  if  they  crowd  around  the  fire,  and  now  you've  struck 
one  of  them,  and  we  may  all  be  murdered.  These  In- 
dians are  revengeful,  and  that  man  will  remember  you  if 
he  meets  you  ten  years  from  now." 

"You  think  he  will  remember  me  as  long  as  that?" 

"Yes,  he  will;  he'll  treasure  that  up  against  you  as 
long  as  he  lives,  for  their  memories  are  long,  and  they 
never  forgive  an  injury." 

"Well,  Gibbs,"  said  I,  "when  I  ask  him  to  forgive  me 
it  will  be  time  for  him  to  do  it.  Just  now  I'm  not  asking 
any  favors  of  him,  and,  as  for  his  remembering  me,  that's 
all  right.  I  hope  he  will,  and  I'll  remember  him,  and  if 


288  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

he  ever  comes  to  this  camp  or  I  meet  him  in  the  woods 
I'll  lick  him  again.  I'm  just  as  mad  as  he  is,  and  I've 
suspected  him  of  stealing  from  us  all  winter,  and  now 
I've  caught  him  in  the  act.  I  don't  want  to  argue  this 
case,  but  what  I've  told  you  is  just  what  I'll  do,  and  you 
can  bet  on  it." 

"Suppose  a  dozen  of  his  friends  take  this  thing  up,  and 
come  down  on  us  in  the  night  and  kill  us  all.  What  can 
six  men  do  in  such  a  case?" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  I,  "the  case  is  not  a  supposable  one. 
You  know  that  their  head  chief,  Hole-in-the-day,  lives 
near  Crow  Wing,  and  that  he  told  McBride,  through  an 
interpreter,  that  if  any  of  his  men  molested  us  in  any 
way  he  would  punish  them,  and  every  Indian  from  this 
place  to  Lake  Superior  has  been  notified  of  this.  There 
is  a  whole  mass  of  stuff  in  your  head  about  Indians  that 
I  don't  suppose  you  could  get  out  with  a  fine-toothed 
comb;  but  you  will  never  find  that  fellow  around  our 
camp  again;  he  is  a  lazy,  thieving  beggar,  who  can't  have 
any  standing  among  his  people." 

Just  how  far  this  satisfied  Gibbs  is  a  question.  His 
mind  was  filled  with  romantic  ideas  of  the  red  man  which 
he  had  obtained  from  books,  and  he  had  no  idea  of  the 
degraded  ones  who  hang  around  a  trading  post,  too  lazy 
to  hunt,  trap  or  fish.  I  saw  many  Indians  that  winter 
who  were  too  proud  to  beg,  and  this  only  proves  that  the 
red  man  is  human  and  differs  in  mental  make-up  as  other 
men  differ.  A  very  different  man  was  We-nen-gway, 
whom  I  met  on  the  border  of  one  of  those  immense  cran- 
berry marshes,  which  were  common  where  we  then  were. 
Some  of  these  marshes  might  have  contained  a  thousand 
acres,  and  were  red  with  frozen  berries.  As  we  had 
sugar  in  plenty,  you  may  imagine  what  an  agreeable 
sauce  we  had  with  our  boiled  pork,  roast  pork,  baked 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  289 

beans,  etc.  His  name  meant  Dirty-face,  and  he  looked 
it.  I  wondered  if  he  took  pride  in  his  name,  and  kept  his 
face  in  that  condition  by  some  vow  to  abstain  from  wash- 
ing, but  on  closer  acquaintance  it  was  evident  that  the 
dark  spots  were  birth  marks,  for  which  he  was  not  re- 
sponsible. He  watched  me  gather  a  quart  of  berries, 
and  accepted  a  piece  of  tobacco  in  a  dignified  sort  of  way. 
He  was  evidently  a  superior  man  to  Mouthful,  and  one 
not  disposed  to  look  too  favorably  on  the  invasion  of  his 
ancestral  domain  by  the  white  man,  but  his  tribe  had  sold 
this  land  to  the  Long  Knives,  and  that  settled  it.  I  took  a 
fancy  to  this  man ;  here  was  the  ideal  man  that  Gibbs  had 
read  of. 

Some  days  afterward  he  visited  our  camp,  which  was 
moved  a  few  miles  most  every  day  to  one  of  the  cardinal 
points  of  the  compass,  and  he  brought  me  a  fine  lake 
trout.  It  was  a  fresh  one,  and  I  was  interested  at  once. 
There  was  no  game  in  the  country,  and  my  rifle  was  a 
useless  burden  in  moving  camp,  but  there  must  be  fish 
near  by. 

I  asked  Dirty-face  to  eat,  and  set  out  some  cold  boiled 
pork  and  beans,  as  well  as  hot  coffee.  This  was  a  treat 
to  him,  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had  eaten  during  the 
previous  week,  and  was  not  filling  up  for  the  week  to 
come.  We  naturally  talked  about  the  fish,  and  he  told 
me  that  over  by  his  wigwam  was  a  lake  with  plenty  of 
fish;  and  as  our  move  next  day  would  bring  our  camp 
near  his,  he  would  show  me  where  and  how  to  catch 
some  o-gah.  This  was  a  new  name,  and  after  drawing 
pictures  of  fish  as  well  as  I  could  on  a  piece  of  birch  bark 
I  drew  a  pike  or  pickerel  and  said,  "Ken-o-shah ;"  he  said 
it  was  the  same.  "O-gah"  I  never  met  before  as  a  name 
for  pike;  but  kenosha,  kenoje  or  kenozha  was  the  more 
common  name  for  the  fish.  If  those  who  wish  to  trace 


290  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

the  derivation  of  the  names  of  fish  as  used  in  popular 
nomenclature  will  take  down  their  volumes  of  Forest  and 
Stream,  and  look  at  the  articles  on  the  name  of  masca- 
longe,  maskinonje,  etc.,  they  will  find  all  that  is  known 
of  the  Indian  name  from  which  the  various  spellings  are 
derived.  See  Vol.  XXVI.,  page  149,  March  18,  1886; 
and  Vol.  XXVL,  page  268,  October  28,  1886. 

From  our  new  camp  on  the  shore  of  a  nameless  lake 
I  could  see  the  wigwam  of  my  new  friend  on  the  other 
side,  about  half  a  mile  off,  and  after  getting  things  in 
shape  I  went  over  to  him.  His  wigwam  was  a  typical 
Ojibway  residence,  made  of  skins  laid  over  many  poles, 
which  came  together  at  the  top,  where  there  was  an  open- 
ing for  the  smoke  to  go  out.  It  was  circular  in  form, 
much  like  the  cumbrous  Sibley  tent  which  some  of  our 
troops  used  in  1862.  On  the  outside  there  were  records 
of  hunts  or  fights  in  black  and  red  pigments,  which  could 
be  read  by  those  versed  in  their  pictorial  histories,  but 
which  were  a  huckleberry  beyond  my  persimmon.  A 
skin  flap  kept  out  the  cold;  a  small  fire  in  the  middle 
diffused  all  the  heat  it  had  to  spare,  and  a  goodly  portion 
of  it  went  out  with  the  smoke.  They  made  small  fires 
of  twigs  and  squatted  over  them,  freezing  one  side  while 
warming  the  other,  and  said  that  ours  were  so  hot  that  a 
man  could  not  get  near  them  to  warm  himself;  but  I  no- 
ticed that  many  nights  our  big  fires  were  patronized  by 
travelling  Indians  to  sleep  by,  instead  of  making  small 
ones  for  themselves.  Did  you  ever  notice  that  man  is 
the  only  animal  which  lies  with  his  feet  to  the  fire?  If 
you  haven't  observed  this,  just  look  at  your  dog  bake  his 
head  under  the  stove. 

I  was  invited  inside.  Besides  the  flavor  of  smoke 
from  burning  wood  there  were  several  other  perfumes 
which  you  never  smelled  in  a  barber's  shop.  Mentally 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  291 

I  quote  a  couplet  from  Tennyson's  "Maud"  as  I  recall  the 
combined  odors: 

"The  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown." 

The  family  consisted  of  Mme.  Dirty-face  and  two 
girls  of  sixteen  and  eighteen,  and  three  young  boys.  By 
a  most  convenient  arrangement  the  parlor,  sitting-room, 
bedroom,  dining-room  and  kitchen  were  all  on  one  floor, 
with  no  partition  nor  stairs  to  climb  when  the  head  of 
the  house  came  home  with  a  load.  I  took  this  all  in  at 
a  glance — the  architectural  beauties,  I  mean — the  odors 
came  in  through  a  different  sense.  When  I  described  it 
to  Henry  Neaville  I  could  only  compare  it  to  a  flavor 
met  in  boyhood  days  when  I  dug  up  a  nest  of  young 
woodchucks. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry,  "I've  been  in  a  wigwam  in  winter, 
but  the  flavor,  as  I  remember  it,  was  more  of  an  orni- 
thological character,  and  seemed  to  resemble  that  of  a 
nest  of  young  woodpeckers." 

Dirty-face  took  down  a  couple  of  spears  and  an  axe, 
and  we  went  up  the  lake  to  an  open  air-hole,  where  it  was 
probable  that  a  spring  boiled  up  from  the  bottom  and 
kept  the  ice  from  forming  over  its  warmer  waters.  He 
advanced  cautiously,  and  sounded  the  ice  with  the  poll  of 
his  axe  until  it  broke;  he  chipped  off  the  edge  which 
would  not  bear  us,  and  we  had  firm  footing  at  the  margin 
of  the  water.  His  spears  were  not  like  the  gig  which 
Guyon  and  I  used,  but  were  made  with  a  single  point 
with  two  barbs,  like  an  arrow-head;  they  appeared  to  be 
made  from  saw  blades,  and  were  fastened  in  clefts  in  the 
handles,  which  were  of  some  heavy  wood.  Our  ice  cut«> 
ting  had  scared  away  any  fish  which  might  be  near,  so 
we  waited  and  smoked.  The  snow  on  the  ice  prevented 


292  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

our  seeing  into  the  water  except  where  it  was  open,  and 
it  also  shielded  us  from  being  seen  by  the  fish.  Once  I 
stamped  a  foot  and  my  friend  said  "Kego,"  and,  as  the 
word  means  both  "fish"  and  "don't,"  it  was  a  caution 
either  way.  Soon  we  could  see  an  occasional  fish  of 
good  size  in  the  clear  water,  but  too  deep  to  be  reached 
with  a  spear. 

His  patience  exceeded  mine,  and  it  began  to  be 
monotonous  to  see  the  fish  swimming  below  out  of  range 
in  the  clear  water,  and  I  said  to  him:  "Kego-de-me,"  the 
fish  are  very  deep.  He  grunted  an  assent,  and  pulled 
out  a  thin  white  stone  not  unlike  a  fish  in  general  shape, 
and  tied  it  to  his  spear  with  a  few  feet  of  string.  This  he 
moved  gently  about,  and  several  fish  gave  it  respectful 
attention  without  being  impertinent,  and  then  a  large  lake 
trout  rose  and  I  struck  and  missed  it;  its  tail  was  toward 
me,  and  my  spear  went  on  one  side.  I  knew  that  my 
friend  must  be  more  expert,  and  I  took  his  spear  and 
played  the  lure  in  the  water,  drawing  it  near  the  surface 
if  a  fish  arose.  Soon  he  plunged  his  spear  into  a  fish 
which  stood  broadside  and  was  about  to  seize  the  decoy. 
The  cord  ran  out  rapidly,  but  the  flight  was  soon  checked 
and  a  fine  nay-may-goos  lay  upon  the  snow.  I  spell  the 
name  as  I  learned  to  speak  it.  Scientists  call  the  lake 
trout  Salvelinus  namaycush,  softening  the  original  word. 
Dirty-face  insisted  that  I  should  try  it  again,  and  I  did, 
for  I  wanted  to  learn  how  to  handle  this  new  kind  of 
spear.  A  large  pike  came  up  to  the  lure,  and  I  sent  the 
steel  into  it  and  secured  it.  We  took  three  more  fish, 
and  then  it  was  time  for  me  to  go  to  camp  to  get  things 
in  shape  for  the  return  of  the  linemen.  I  went  back  by 
way  of  the  wigwam,  and  stopped  awhile  and  gave  Mrs. 
Dirty-face  some  tobacco,  and  she  ordered  the  girls  to 
clean  the  fish  for  me.  I  took  two — enough  for  our  sup- 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  293 

per,  with  the  rice  and  beans — and  would  take  no  more. 
I  have  always  been  in  doubt  whether  her  action  was 
genuinely  generous  or  not,  for  the  whole  party  visited 
me  next  day,  and  again  when  we  moved  to  the  upper  end 
of  the  lake,  and  if  a  balance  was  struck  between  those 
two  fish  (which  may  have  weighed  twelve  pounds)  and 
an  unknown  quantity  of  bread,  beans,  rice,  coffee  and 
sugar — really,  I  don't  know  if  there  would  be  any  bal- 
ance. 

I  have  remarked  on  the  absence  of  game  and  other 
animal  life.  The  snow  which  fell  in  September,  and  had 
lain  without  addition  or  melting,  had  become  too  hard 
to  record  the  passing  of  small  animals,  such  as  mink, 
rabbits  or  even  the  heavier  'coons,  but  I  saw  a  mink  and 
a  fox,  and  heard  the  great  gray  timber  wolf  several  times. 
The  Canada  jay  and  the  raven  were  the  most  common 
birds,  and  I  saw  the  little  chickadee  and  a  bird  which  I 
did  not  know,  but  now  think  might  have  been  the  shrike, 
or  butcher  bird.  I  never  ceased  to  be  surprised  at  the 
absence  of  life  in  this  wilderness. 

December  came  and  the  cold  increased.  One  morn- 
ing th.e  trees  were  bursting  with  a  sound  like  rifles,  and 
Gibbs  thought  we  were  attacked.  He  and  Crosby 
jumped  up  out  of  bed  before  daylight,  but  soon  returned 
when  the  rest  of  the  party  laughed  at  them,  for  we  knew 
what  the  noise  meant,  having  heard  it  before.  After 
reaching  Crow  Wing  we  learned  that  the  thermometer 
had  been  40°  below  zero  on  several  occasions.  There 
was  no  wind  in  the  heavy  timber,  and  we  were  warmly 
clad  and  could  hardly  realize  how  cold  it  was.  Coats 
were  discarded,  but  no  man  knew  how  many  flannel 
shirts  he  had  on;  and  as  long  as  the  body  part  of  a  pair 
of  trousers  held  together  the  legs  of  them  were  reinforced 
by  cylinders  made  of  bed  ticking  fastened  at  top  and  bot- 


294:  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

torn;  these  were  not  removed  when  worn  out,  but  other 
reinforcements  were  added  outside  them  until  a  cross 
section  of  a  leg  might  have  shown  half  a  dozen  strata  of 
bed  tick  above  the  original  deposit  of  trousering. 

We  had  now  reached  the  northern  line  of  our  survey 
at  its  eastern  end,  over  by  Mille-lacs,  and  were  working 
the  upper  tier  of  townships  toward  the  Mississippi.  One 
day  I  was  out  with  my  rifle  in  the  hope  of  finding  game 
when  I  came  across  a  wigwam  by  a  small  stream.  I  en- 
tered without  ceremony,  in  accordance  with  Indian  eti- 
quette, and  found  a  party  of  perhaps  a  dozen  bucks  and 
squaws,  seated  on  the  ground  around  a  small  fire  in  the 
centre,  over  which  a  sheet  iron  camp  kettle  was  boiling 
and  sending  forth  a  savory  odor.  I  was  hungry  after  the 
tramp,  although  I  had  bread,  pork  and  beans  in  plenty, 
but  had  not  eaten.  After  giving  the  mixed  French  and 
Indian  salute  which  they  commonly  used,  I  invited  my- 
self to  sit  down,  and  this  was  also  correct  Ojibway  form. 
There  was  an  oppressive  silence — oppressive  to  me,  at 
least. 

"The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed;  each  passing  tread 
Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 

Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead." 

How  different  these  people  were  from  a  party  of  white 
men  waiting  for  a  feast.  There  was  no  chat,  jest,  song 
or  story.  For  idle  men  they  take  life  seriously,  and  yet 
they  are  like  children  in  many  of  their  moods.  I  could 
never  learn  to  live  their  way;  that  impassive,  self-con- 
tained manner  seems  to  be  a  continual  sort  of  dress 
parade,  so  to  speak,  for  they  can  be  roused  to  enthusiasm 
by  war  or  the  hunt.  I  can't  say  that  I  like  such  people ; 
they  are  not  cordial,  and  seem  to  be  sitting  in  cold  and 
unsympathetic  judgment  on  not  only  you,  but  every 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  295 

other  thing  on  earth.  During  the  winter  it  had  been 
evident  that  I  was  not  a  favorite  with  the  native  Ameri- 
can. He-who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful  evidently 
preferred  Gibbs  to  me,  and  some  others  whom  I  had 
bounced  out  of  camp  because  of  persistent  begging  had 
no  great  love  for  me,  and  so  there  was  no  amount  of  love 
lost  between  us.  I  stood,  as  the  commissary  of  our 
party,  the  custodian  of  its  supplies,  which  would  have 
melted  away  in  a  week  if  all-comers  had  been  regaled  as 
our  friend  Gibbs  would  have  entertained  them.  They 
would  have  stayed  by  him  as  long  as  the  provisions 
lasted;  they  liked  Gibbs. 

In  this  party  in  the  wigwam  I  recognized  Dirty-face 
and  others  who  had  been  at  our  camp  and  had  eaten  of 
our  pork,  their  great  dainty,  which  they  called  koo- 
koosh;  but  there  was  no  cordial  handshake — only  a  nod 
and  a  grunt,  which  is  their  limit  of  welcome.  A  squaw 
arose,  thrust  a  stick  into  the  kettle  and  brought  up  meat; 
she  was  satisfied  that  it  was  sufficiently  cooked,  and  took 
the  kettle  from  the  fire  and  went  outside  with  it.  I  had 
curiosity  enough  to  get  up  and  follow.  She  put  the  ket- 
tle in  the  snow,  and  scraped  up  snow  about  it  to  cool  it. 
I  asked  her  what  meat  she  was  about  to  serve  to  her 
guests,  at  the  same  time  giving  her  what  pork  I  had. 
We  were  friends.  Pork  was  good,  and  she  had  only 
muskrat  to  offer.  Muskrat  was  not  fat  like  pork  and 
bear  meat,  but  it  was  warm,  and  she  hoped  I  would  like  it. 

Away  back  in  the  fourth  article  of  this  series  I  told  of 
Bill  Fairchild's  experience  with  the  muskrat  as  food,  as 
he  related  it  at  a  seance  in  Port  Tyler's  cabin,  in  Green- 
bush.  If  you  remember,  Bill  could  follow  the  French- 
man's advice — could  "skin  da  mus'rat,  bile  him  a  leetle, 
den  fry  a-heem  an'  eat  him,  an'  oh !"  Right  here  I  wish 
to  record  my  first  experience  with  the  musquash  as  an 


296  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

epicurean  dish.  I  ate  it  years  afterward  from  choice 
while  camping  with  Mort.  Locke,  John  Fish  and  Wm. 
Downey  on  Cayuga  Lake,  N.  Y.,  as  the  two  last  named, 
now  living  at  Honeoye  Falls,  N.  Y.,  will  testify,  if  they 
have  any  regard  for  the  truth;  but  that  is  another  story, 
and  there's  no  use  telling  how  we  played  it  on  one  of  the 
party  for  something  else  in  the  way  of  game. 

When  the  contents  of  the  camp  kettle  were  cool  the 
squaw  brought  it  in,  and  a  group  formed  around  it  on 
one  side  of  the  fire.  I  was  not  only  hungry,  but  was 
curious  to  taste  muskrat,  which  is  a  very  clean  feeder; 
but  somehow  the  cook  and  the  surroundings  were  not 
conducive  to  much  appetite;  but  they  asked  me  to  join, 
and  I  joined.  They  dipped  their  hands  in  the  kettle,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  they  had  been  manicured  recently.  Dirty- 
face  handed  me  a  piece,  and  I  wondered  if  any  in  the 
party  might  be  named  Dirty-hand.  I  wasn't  hungry 
now,  and  said  so,  but  felt  a  delicacy  about  refusing  to  eat 
with  these  friendly  folk,  and  also  felt  a  delicacy  about 
eating  food  served  in  this  manner.  They  omitted  nap- 
kins and  finger  bowls,  and  somehow  didn't  seem  to  miss 
them.  I  ate  a  little,  very  little;  said  it  was  good,  but  I 
wasn't  hungry  just  then,  and  went  out.  The  air  outside 
was  excellent. 

I  could  have  said  with  Petruchio : 

"Where  is  the  rascal  cook? 

How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not?" 

Gratiano,  in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  asks  a  ques- 
tion to  which  he  evidently  expects  no  answer: 

"Who  riseth  from  a  feast 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down?" 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  297 

I  pungled  off,  and  ate  my  little  cold  luncheon  beside 
a  spring  on  the  lake  side.  There  were  no  napkins  nor 
finger  bowls  there,  but  there  was  that  satisfying  knowl- 
edge that  the  hands  which  handled  the  food  had  been 
bathed  since  they  skinned  the  last  muskrat.  On  relating 
this  to  Henry  Neaville  he  remarked: 

"I  don't  care  what  any  of  these  writers  on  health  say 
about  too  frequent  bathing  being  injurious;  I  believe  that 
a  man  ought  to  wash  his  hands  once  a  month,  whether 
they  need  it  or  not." 

Our  surveys  were  nearly  finished,  and  nothing  was 
left  to  be  done  but  to  meander  the  river  and  figure  the 
fractional  sections  which  it  cut,  and  to  do  a  little  work 
around  Crow  Wing.  Henry  Neaville  and  I  were  to 
pack  up,  and  get  back  to  the  trading  post  and  meet  the 
party  there.  An  Indian,  a  stranger,  came  to  camp  and 
begged  for  whiskey.  I  told  him  we  had  none,  but  he  saw 
the  molasses  keg,  and  kept  on  begging  until  Henry  said : 
"Give  him  some  pepper  sauce."  I  had  put  the  liquor 
from  several  of  the  bottles  into  one  and  had  thrown  away 
the  peppers,  and  taking  up  the  bottle,  Henry  and  I  pre- 
tended to  drink,  and  then  he  was  wild  for  some.  I 
showed  him  with  my  thumb  on  the  bottle  how  much  or 
how  little  he  must  drink,  and  he  grunted  assent,  seized 
the  bottle  with  both  hands,  and  such  swallows  as  he  took 
before  it  burned  him  I  never  saw.  If  one  swallow 
doesn't  make  a  summer,  those  he  took  made  it  hot 
enough  for  him.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  snorted 
"woof,"  like  a  bear,  and  started  for  the  river.  Three 
times  he  stopped  and  snorted,  and  then  ran  out  of  sight. 
Henry  roared,  rolled  over  and  roared.  When  he  got  his 
speech  he  said,  between  spasms:  "Golly,  but  that  Injun 
thinks  there  was  more  fire  than  water  in  that  'scutah- 
wawba;  oh,  dear!  he's  gone  for  a  doctor;  he  thinks  you've 


9-98  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

poisoned  him.  Oh,  if  Gibbs  was  only  here  to  tell  you 
how  Mr.  Lo  will  remember  that  drink!" 

We  stopped  a  couple  of  days  at  Crow  Wing,  and  I 
became  acquainted  with  the  brothers  who  kept  the  trad- 
ing post.  I  think  their  name  was  McDonald,  but  am  not 
sure,  and  Mr.  Davies  isn't.  They  told  of  an  Indian  who 
died  there  some  winters  before  when  the  ground  was 
frozen  too  hard  to  bury  him,  and  how  they  stood  him  up 
all  winter  against  the  north  side  of  the  house  and  buried 
him  in  the  spring,  and  some  other  cheerful  stories  of  dead 
Indians.  A  Mr.  Morrison  lived  there,  one  of  the  leading 
men  of  northern  Minnesota,  for  whom  the  county  below 
Crow  Wing  is  named.  He  had  married  an  Ojibway 
woman,  and  had  two  grown-up  daughters,  who  had  been 
educated  in  St.  Louis,  and  they  played  the  piano  for  us, 
and  our  visit  was  an  event  in  Crow  Wing  life.  Bishop 
McElvaney  was  there,  and  preached  on  the  birth  of 
Christ  in  Morrison's  house,  while  Davies  and  others 
sang.  I  didn't  sing;  when  I  sing  the  police  always  pull 
the  house,  thinking  there  must  be  a  dog  fight  in  the  back 
room. 

I  went  up  to  see  Hole-in-the-day,  and  he  showed  me 
a  Colt's  rifle,  made  like  a  revolver,  inlaid  with  gold,  which 
was  given  him  by  President  Franklin  Pierce  a  year  or 
two  before.  I  understood  that  it  was  taken  from  the 
Patent  Office  by  consent  of  Colonel  Colt.  He  talked 
about  trading  it  for  my  rifle,  if  I  added  enough  dollars 
to  suit  him.  He  was  poor,  or  pretended  to  be,  and  I 
wanted  that  rifle  very  much,  but  thought  best  to  consult 
with  the  brothers  at  the  post.  One  of  them  said:  "It's 
against  the  law  to  trade  with  these  people  without  a  li- 
cense, and  if  you  trade  with  him  for  the  gun  he  can  send 
a  man  after  it,  and  you  will  lose  both  rifles  and  all  you've 
paid,  and  then  may  have  some  trouble  with  the  law." 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  299 

That  settled  the  trading,  but  when  I  saw  the  old  chief 
again  he  wanted  to  know,  in  confidence,  if  we  had  any 
whiskey  left.  I  doubt  if  a  single  Indian  believed  that  six 
white  men,  who  had  so  many  things  they  thought  to  be 
luxuries,  spent  half  the  winter  in  the  woods  without 
whiskey.  To  them  it  seemed  an  absurd  proposition. 
The  Indians  who  hung  around  trading  posts  were  not 
of  the  best  class,  and  had  readily  copied  all  the  vices  of 
the  white  man  from  a  class  whose  virtues  were  not  so 
apparent.  They  had  not  then  adopted  the  white  man's 
dress  except  the  calico  or  the  flannel  shirt.  They  wore 
the  breech-clout  and  leggings,  a  shirt  and  the  invariable 
blanket. 

When  we  were  up  along  the  river  we  were  near  the 
great  northern  trail  from  the  Red  River  of  the  North,  and 
Henry  said  that  the  mail  was  due  in  a  day  or  two,  so  he 
had  heard  from  a  half-breed.  'This  mail,"  said  he, 
"comes  down  in  a  dog  sledge,  and  if  we  can  put  out  some 
pieces  of  pork  in  the  snow  you'll  see  some  fun." 

That  did  seem  the  proper  thing  to  do,  and  in  fact  it 
was  the  only  way  possible  to  extract  any  fun  out  of  a  dog 
train,  and  we  planted  pieces  of  pork  at  intervals  of  one 
hundred  feet,  more  or  less,  and  waited.  It  was  next 
morning  before  we  heard  the  driver  calling  to  his  dogs 
a  long  way  off,  for  sound  travels  far  in  the  cold  and  over 
snow.  On  he  came,  with  five  wolfish-looking  dogs  har- 
nessed tandem,  with  rawhides  traces  and  soft  collars,  to 
a  flat-bottomed  sledge  made  of  thin  birch  boards  turned 
up  in  front,  and  lashed  together  with  thongs  and  covered 
with  a  skin  tied  over  all,  and  without  runners.  The 
driver  ran  beside  the  team,  touching  a  dog  here  and  there 
with  a  long  lash  fastened  to  a  handle  about  one  foot  long. 
The  leader  struck  a  piece  of  pork,  and  in  a  moment  four 
dogs  were  on  him  fighting  for  it,  and  the  harness  was  all 


300  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

tied  up.  He  plied  the  whip,  and  made  appropriate  re- 
marks while  doing  it.  Some  dog  bolted  the  meat,  and  the 
fighting  stopped,  for  there  was  no  pork  in  sight.  The 
half-breed  muttered  something,  evidently  not  a  prayer, 
while  he  put  each  dog  in  its  place,  and  on  he  went  in  no 
pleasant  mood,  and  the  scene  was  soon  repeated.  He 
was  near  us  this  time,  and  we  could  see  that  the  second 
dog  won  the  prize,  while  the  rest  had  to  be  contented 
with  a  bite  of  or  from  his  neighbor.  It  was  fun  for  the 
dogs  and  for  us,  but  from  what  the  half-breed  said  I  doubt 
if  he  enjoyed  it.  If  he  had  seen  us  he  might  have  in- 
dulged in  more  oratory,  but  he  had  to  waste  his  elo- 
quence on  the  dogs.  It  was  fun  to  do  this  at  that  time, 
because  we  thought  it  fun.  To-day  we  wouldn't  do  it, 
because  there  would  be  no  fun  in  it.  Thus  we  view 
things  at  different  periods  of  life.  The  fire-crackers  we 
shot  off  half  a  century  ago  don't  sound  as  joyful  as  they 
did,  and  we  go  into  the  country  to  avoid  them ;  so  we  go. 
McBride  sold  our  provisions — I  think  there  were  two 
barrels  of  flour  and  one  of  pork  left — and  if  memory 
serves  he  got  about  $20  per  barrel  for  the  flour,  and  twice 
that  for  the  pork.  Long  prices ;  but  transportation  from 
St.  Paul,  over  one  hundred  miles  away,  over  a  winter 
road,  and  no  way  of  getting  from  St.  Louis  to  St.  Paul 
except  by  teams  when  the  river  was  frozen,  made  things 
come  high.  The  wagon  was  sold  and  a  bob  sleigh 
bought,  the  box  filled  with  straw  and  blankets,  and  on 
December  22  we  started  for  home.  Two  days  later  we 
stopped  just  outside  St.  Paul.  It  did  seem  good  to  get 
in  a  bed  again,  but  we  couldn't  stand  a  room  with  win- 
dows closed.  We  had  slept  in  the  pure,  cold  air  too  long 
for  that.  We  left  the  river  at  Red  Wing,  and  took  the 
west  side,  avoiding  the  hotels  in  the  large  towns,  stop- 
ping at  country  taverns,  and  we  had  what  Henry  called 


WE-NEN-GWAY.  301 

"dead  loads  of  fun."  At  these  rural  hostelries  we  struck 
a  dance  nearly  every  night.  At  a  small  place  not  far 
from  Rochester,  Minn.,  the  fiddler  didn't  show  up,  and 
some  country  roughs  proposed  to  wreck  the  hotel,  and 
the  landlord  appealed  to  us  for  protection.  We  were  at 
a  late  supper,  and  Tom  Davies  finished  first,  and  went 
out  and  talked  with  the  turbulent  spirits ;  but  he  was  only 
one  man,  and  he  came  back  for  reinforcements.  We 
went  out  in  a  body  at  the  landlord's  suggestion,  and  after 
he  had  said  a  few  words  in  a  conciliatory  way  I  winked  to 
Henry  and  he  came;  we  took  the  leader  of  the  gang  one 
side,  and  I  said  to  him: 

"This  party  of  ours  has  just  come  out  of  the  woods, 
and  they're  peaceable  enough  if  there  isn't  any  fighting 
going  on;  but  if  there's  any  fighting  you  can't  keep  'em 
out.  We  don't  know  any  of  the  people  here,  but  the 
landlord  is  a  white  man,  and  if  a  fight  is  started  we're 
with  him.  Do  you  see  that  dark  man  over  there?  Well, 
he's  a  Welshman;  look  at  the  build  of  him;  he  can  kill  a 
steer  with  one  blow  of  his  fist,"  and  I  pointed  to  Tom 
Davies. 

"I've  seen  him  do  it  three  times  down  in  Wisconsin," 
said  Henry. 

"It's  just  here,"  said  I.  "There  isn't  going  to  be  any 
fighting  in  this  house  to-night  unless  we  all  take  a  hand 
in  it,  and  if  we  do  I  tell  you  as  a  friend  to  keep  away 
from  that  Welshman." 

"Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet; 
Buried  was  the  fearful  war  club; 
Buried  were  all  warlike  weapons, 
And  the  war  cry  was  forgotten; 
Then  was  peace  among  the  nations." 

Just  what  delayed  the  fiddler  is  lost  in  memory's  fog, 


302  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

but  the  lads  and  lassies  were  impatient;  a  thought  struck 
my  old  bosom-block,  Henry.  Could  the  landlord  get  a 
fiddle?  The  landlord  could,  and  did.  Behold  Henry 
seated  on  a  chair  on  top  of  a  table,  tuning  up !  Such  tun- 
ing and  such  playing!  He  was  not  Ole  Bull,  but  he 
pame  as  near  to  him  as  he  could.  I  can  see  him  now, 
beating  time  with  his  boot — which  had  been  cut  open  to 
allow  his  frozen  toe  to  expand — and  calling  off:  "First 
two  forward!"  etc.  After  a  while  the  missing  fiddler  ar- 
rived, and  relieved  Henry  without  any  perceptible  im- 
provement in  the  music,  but  there  was  an  era  of  good 
feeling,  and  it  was 

"On  with  the  dance! 

Let  joy  be  unconfined! 

No  sleep  till  morn, 

When  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet." 

We  went  through  Pleasant  Grove,  where  me  met 
Hiram  Gilmore,  of  Potosi,  who  gave  us  late  news  of  our 
families,  and  on  the  28th  we  stopped  at  Decorah,  la. ;  we 
struck  the  Mississippi  at  Clayton  City  with  sick  horses; 
they  would  neither  eat  nor  drink,  and  what  the  matter 
was  I  don't  know,  only  that  we  were  delayed.  From 
there  we  took  the  ice  to  Cassville,  Wis.,  where  we  stopped 
all  night,  and  then  struck  out  for  home,  which  we  reached 
just  after  sundown  on  the  last  day  of  the  year,  and,  as  the 
King  says  in  "Hamlet:" 

"At  night  we'll  feast  together: 
Most  welcome  home." 


SERGEANT    WILLIAM      PATTERSON. 

A  "BAD  MAN,"  A  LOAD  OF  FISH  AND  A  DEAD  CHILD. 

THERE  is  some  reason  for  believing  that  his  name 
was  William,  although  I  do  not  know  it.  The 
reason  is  entirely  from  analogy;  he  was  always 
known  as  "Bill"  Patterson,  and  I  had  known  other  men 
to  be  called  "Bill"  whose  real  name  was  William.  Fur- 
ther than  this  I  find  upon  the  rolls  of  Company  H, 
Twenty-fifth  Wisconsin  Infantry,  the  name  of  Sergeant 
William  Patterson,  of  Potosi;  and  my  old  friend,  Judge 
Seaton,  who  has  kindly  posted  me  on  affairs  in  the  village 
since  I  left  it,  says:  "Bill  Patterson  went  out  with  the 
Twenty-fifth  Wisconsin  Infantry."  Therefore,  as  I  have 
said,  there  is  reason  for  believing  his  name  to  be  William. 
If  living,  he  is  near  Portland,  Ore.,  but  letters  to  him 
have  been  returned  to  me  after  being  opened  by  another 
William  Patterson. 

On  that  New  Year  Eve,  when  our  surveying  party  re- 
turned to  Potosi  from  northern  Minnesota,  there  was 
quite  a  little  visiting  done  by  neighbors,  who  were  anx- 
ious to  learn  of  adventures  among  the  Indians,  and  as  I 
lived  in  the  middle  one  of  three  cottages,  all  under  one 
roof,  owned  by  a  Mr.  Knight,  who  lived  on  one  side,  and 
Bill  Patterson  on  the  other,  both  neighbors  called.  Bill 
was  then,  I  think,  about  thirty-three  years  old,  I  was 
twenty-three,  and  "Old  Poppy  Knight,"  the  only  name 
that  memory  recalls  him  by,  was  probably  sixty;  but  lit- 
tle, weazened  and  dried  up,  and  "meaner  'an  pusley,"  as 

303 


304:  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

farmers  say.  Bill  was  a  strapping,  broad-shouldered  fel- 
low, who  had  been  on  the  West  Coast  in  that  early  day, 
perhaps  with  the  "Argonauts"  who  went  to  the  gold- 
fields  of  California  in  1849;  a  rough,  swaggering  fellow, 
just  the  opposite  of  Old  Poppy  Knight,  whom  he  seemed 
to  dislike  in  a  superlative  degree. 

Mrs.  Patterson  and  Miss  Rowena  Knight,  daughter 
of  O.  P.  K.,  were  in  the  family  circle.  The  conversation 
'had  been  general,  and  I  had  tried  to  reply  to  three  or 
four  questions  at  once,  when  Pop  asked:  "Are  them  In- 
jun girls  good  lookin'?" 

"See  here,  Pop/'  said  Bill,  who  had  been  where  the 
evening  had  been  more  bibulously  observed,  "what  does 
an  old  duffer  like  you  want  to  talk  about  Injun  girls  for? 
I've  been  all  through  Sonora,  New  Mexico  and  the  whole 
West  Coast,  and  I  never  see  a  squaw  that  was  worth  a 
second  look.  I  want  to  find  out  what  them  Injuns  live 
on  up  in  that  cold  country,  where  Fred  says  there's  no 
game.  I've  ast  that  half  a  dozen  times,  and  you  don't 
give  him  a  chance  to  answer.  Now  you  let  up  for  a  little 
till  we  get  at  this  problem  of  eating."  Then  to  me: 
"What  can  they  get  to  eat  up  there?" 

"Mainly  fish,"  I  answered;  "they  dry  it  for  winter, 
and  eat  it  without  anything  except  salt,  of  which  they  are 
fond;  but  where  they  got  salt  before  the  white  man  came 
is  a  question.  The  Indians  on  the  sea  coast  got  it  in 
their  fish  and  oysters,  and  those  about  the  interior  salt 
springs  had  it  to  trade  with  other  tribes;  but  when  you 
look  at  it  you  will  see  that  the  dwellers  in  some  parts 
must  have  eaten  their  meat  without  it." 

"Bill  says  he  never  saw  a  good-looking  squaw,"  said 
Pop.  "Now  there's  lots  o'  half-breeds  up  there,  and  are 
the  half-breed  girls  better  looking  than  the  squaws?" 

"Pop,"  said  Bill,  "you  had  better  go  up  there  and  see 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  305 

for  yourself;  this  thing  of  beauty  is  a  personal  matter. 
Some  o'  them  squaws  might  take  a  fancy  to  you,  for  they 
ain't  got  the  first  bit  of  taste.  I've  seen  men  that  has 
married  squaws,  but  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  an  ugly  old 
squaw  that  would  marry  you.  I'll  be  obliged  if  you  will 
shut  up." 

Put  yourself  in  my  place!  As  the  host,  I  did  not 
fancy  this  sort  of  talk;  but  what  could  I  do?  Although 
Mr.  Knight  was  Bill's  landlord  as  well  as  mine,  I  knew 
that  it  would  only  need  a  word  more  for  Bill — in  viola- 
tion of  all  rules  of  hospitality,  in  which  he  was  not  well 
read — to  take  the  old  man  by  the  collar  and  trousers,  and 
set  him  outside.  I  turned  the  tide  by  telling  of  Henry 
Neaville's  frozen  feet,  and  we  got  along  harmoniously 
until  the  clock  said  it  was  time  for  congratulations  on 
the  new  year.  As  the  good-nights  were  said  Bill 
whispered  that  we  should  have  a  deer  hunt  on  the  first 
day  of  the  new  year,  and  after  the  rest  were  gone  we 
sat  down  over  our  pipes  and  arranged  for  it. 

A  couple  of  inches  of  snow  fell  early  in  the  night  on 
top  of  the  old  snow,  which  was  about  the  same  depth,  but 
not  hard.  The  new  year  of  1857  opened  still  and  mild, 
without  being  bright;  as  perfect  a  day  for  a  hunt  as  it 
was  possible  to  have.  Every  rabbit  that  had  ventured 
out  since  midnight  left  evidence  of  its  wanderings,  and 
we  saw  where  the  quail  had  huddled  on  the  ground  and 
had  risen  in  the  morning.  The  partridge  left  a  broad 
trail  until  it  tired  of  wading  and  took  to  a  tree.  All 
these  things  were  noted  as  we  went  off  to  the  northwest 
to  strike  the  Grant  River.  Bill  wanted  to  talk  about 
"Old  Poppy  Knight,"  and  I  tried  to  keep  him  still.  Two 
winters  in  the  woods  had  the  usual  effect  of  making  a 
fellow  think  more  than  he  talks.  We  were  on  a  ridge 
and  were  about  one  hundred  feet  apart. 


306  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Bill  said:  "Old  Pop  made  me  mad  last  night,  bustin' 
in  the  talk  to  know  if  squaws  was  good-lookin'.  What 
'n  thunder  is  that  to  him?"  and  then  he  launched  out  in 
his  rough  way  and  "swore  like  our  army  in  Flanders." 
There  was  a  crackling  of  brush,  followed  by  several 
thuds,  and  Bill's  rifle  spoke.  I  saw  nothing;  the  deer 
had  been  lying  down  on  Bill's  side  of  the  ridge  listening 
to  what  Bill  thought  of  the  propriety  of  O.  P.  Knight's 
inquiry  into  the  physical  attractions  of  the  Ojibway 
maidens,  and  no  doubt  feared  that  Bill's  indignation 
might  take  a  wrong  direction,  and  so  considered  it  best 
to  leave  him  to  settle  it  with  Mr.  Knight  without  being  a 
party  to  the  row.  We  went  to  the  place  where  the  deer 
jumped,  but  found  no  blood.  Going  back  to  the  ridge, 
about  fifty  yards,  I  looked  the  range  over,  and  then  found 
where  the  bullet  had  cut  a  twig  and  then  raked  up  the 
snow  half  way  to  the  spot  where  the  deer  jumped,  no 
doubt  when  it  was  several  rods  on  its  journey. 

"Who'd  think  there  was  a  deer  lyin'  down  in  that 
thicket?"  asked  Bill.  "Why,  I  s'posed  we'd  have  to 
track  'em  after  we  found  where  they'd  been?" 

"If  they're  not  afoot  you  never  know  when  you  may 
jump  one  along  a  ridge,"  said  I,  "for  they  seldom  lie  in 
the  hollows,  and  you  can  look  for  'em  on  the  sheltered 
side  of  a  ridge  'most  anywhere.  Now  let  Old  Poppy 
Knight  rest,  and  keep  still  for  a  while.  Your  shot  has 
been  heard  by  every  deer  within  three  miles,  and  it  may 
have  put  some  of  them  afoot,  but  you  will  have  to  tramp 
before  you  see  one.  We're  nearing  the  river  now;  the 
ridge  forks  here;  you  take  the  left  hand  one,  and  we'll 
come  together  at  the  river." 

After  going  about  half  a  mile  and  seeing  no  track  I 
heard  Bill's  shot  from  the  western  ridge,  stopped  and 
cocked  my  rifle.  A  buck  came  dashing  down  the  hill 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  30 7 

and  I  slipped  behind  a  tree.  Great  bounds  he  took,  and 
up  the  hill  on  my  side  he  came,  panting  with  the  effort. 
Gaining  the  ridge,  he  stopped,  turned  to  look  back,  and 
presented  a  full  broadside  view  to  me  at  not  over  one 
hundred  feet.  As  I  fired  he  leaped  into  the  brush,  but 
the  great  spurt  of  blood  on  the  snow  told  the  tale.  I 
gave  a  whoop,  and  got  an  answer,  then  called,  "Come 
over  here!"  and  sat  down  on  a  log.  It  seemed  hours 
before  Bill  made  the  journey  across  the  valley  that  the 
buck  had  made  in  a  very  few  minutes,  if  he  really  con- 
sumed any  time  at  all.  We  took  the  track,  and  down 
by  the  river  we  found  the  deer,  dead.  Bill's  bullet,  shot 
on  the  jump,  had  grazed  the  breast  just  back  of  the  shoul- 
der, cutting  the  hair  and  marking  the  skin — an  excellent 
shot  at  a  jumping  deer,  for  no  doubt  it  jumped  before  Bill 
saw  it. 

The  buck  was  a  fair-sized  four-pronged  one.  We 
dressed  it,  and  then  went  to  a  spring,  washed,  and  ate 
our  luncheon,  for  it  was  far  past  the  noon  hour.  As  we 
lighted  our  pipes  Bill  remarked:  "We'll  divide  that  deer 
when  we  get  up,  and  it's  about  all  we  will  want  to  carry 
home.  Under  the  rule  that  the  first  bullet  hole  takes  the 
hide  it's  mine,  but  you  can  have  the  head  if  you  want 
it." 

"All  right,  Bill;  show  up  the  hole  and  take  the  hide; 
that's  the  rule." 

"Didn't  I  make  a  hole  in  his  belly  just  behind  the 
shoulder?  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  didn't  hit  him?" 

"There's  a  scratch  there  that  a  jury  might  decide  was 
made  by  your  bullet,  or  might  have  been  made  by  a  pine 
knot  when  the  deer  stepped  over  a  log.  I  don't  want  the 
hide;  Charley  Mallett  wouldn't  give  over  $i  for  it,  any- 
way. I  am  sure  your  bullet  made  the  mark,  for  there 
was  fresh  blood  there,  and  the  cut  was  across  the  breast, 


308  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

not  lengthwise,  as  it  would  have  been  done  when  the  deer 
was  on  the  run.  Take  it;  I  only  spoke  in  that  way  be- 
cause of  your  claiming  the  hide  so  promptly." 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Bill,  "I  don't  want  that  hide. 
I  ain't  no  hog!  All  I  thought  of  was  that  I  didn't  miss 
that  deer  slick  and  clean  as  I  did  the  other  one,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  know  it.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do;  let's 
give  a  quarter  of  the  deer  and  the  hide  to  old  John  Jami- 
son, who  has  been  sick  all  winter  an'  hasn't  earned  a  dol- 
lar; send  a  quarter  to  that  widow  up  there  on  the  British 
Hollow  road;  I  forget  her  name,  but  her  husband  died 
before  you  got  back  from  the  North.  Then  we'll  keep 
the  rest,  and  if  Old  Poppy  Knight  would  like  a  steak — 
no,  I'll  feed  it  to  Charley  Guyon's  'coon  dog  first.  Say, 
I  wouldn't  let  that  old  pelican  have  a  smell  of  it.  No, 
sir,  not  by  a  mill  privilege." 

His  charitable  proposition  was  carried  out;  we  had 
our  hunt  and  all  the  meat  we  needed.  It's  not  hard  to 
give  away  what  you  don't  need;  the  difficulty  often  oc- 
curs in  deciding  what  it  is  that  you  don't  need  when  your 
neighbor  is  destitute,  and  is  in  desperate  need  of  things 
which  you  don't — here  I  get  off  the  track,  and  go  to 
moralizing  over  what  struck  me  as  a  good  streak  in  the 
nature  of  Bill  Patterson,  who  took  good  care  that  no  one 
should  discover  that  he  had  what  he  would  have  con- 
sidered a  weak  spot.  He  would  have  fought  me  for  that 
deer  skin,  but  you  see  how  it  went. 

February  had  come,  and  Henry  Neaville's  feet  had 
got  over  their  October  freeze.  He  drifted  into  my  house 
one  day  on  a  south  wind  when  Bill  was  profanely  reciting 
his  adventures  in  Sonora  and  New  Mexico,  and  said: 
"There's  a  lot  of  fish  in  a  pond  hole  down  by  the  river, 
and  they're  all  a-crowding  up  to  a  little  spring  that  keeps 
an  open  place  and  gives  'em  air.  There's  a  lot  o'  bass, 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  309 

pike,  dogfish  and  all  the  other  kinds,  an*  you  can  just  dip 
'em  up  by  the  scoopful;  what  do  you  say  about  going 
down  and  getting  some?" 

"All  right,"  said  Bill;  "we'll  go  in  the  morning.  I've 
got  a  dip  net  that  only  wants  a  handle,  and  I'll  put  one 
on  in  the  morning.  Come  down  after  breakfast  and 
we'll  go.  I  haven't  had  a  fresh  fish  this  winter,  and  have 
forgotten  just  how  they  taste." 

Our  outfit  consisted  of  a  dip  net,  or  a  landing  net  of 
coarse  mesh  strung  on  a  fourteen-inch  ring,  with  a  rake 
handle  attached;  an  axe,  a  spear,  or  "gig/'  and  some  mos- 
quito netting,  which  Henry  brought.  What  the  latter 
was  for  I  had  no  idea,  but  then  I  had  not  seen  the  place. 
It  was  snowing  a  little,  with  hardly  any  wind.  The  pool, 
or  pond  hole,  as  Henry  called  it,  might  have  covered  two 
acres,  and  had  been  washed  out  of  the  soft  soil  by  the 
great  river  some  time  when  it  overflowed  its  banks,  and 
in  summer  it  was  dry.  A  spring  came  in  its  eastern  edge 
and  kept  the  ice  from  making  up  to  the  shore.  Thou- 
sands of  large  fish  crowded  to  this  opening  for  air,  and  I 
never  saw  such  a  sight  before  nor  since.  There  must 
have  been  many  thousands  of  the  different  fishes  which 
inhabit  the  Mississippi  River  crowded  into  a  small  space, 
those  in  the  rear  pushing  up  to  the  open  place  and  forcing 
the  others  to  the  shore  and  around  to  the  rear,  as  if  they 
said:  "You  have  had  your  chance  to  breathe,  now  make 
way  for  us." 

I  stood  in  amazement  at  the  scene.  Bill  took  the  axe, 
and  cut  the  opening  larger  until  the  thin  ice  at  the  mar- 
gin was  gone  and  we  could  stand  at  the  edge.  I  took 
the  net  and  dipped  up  a  few  fish,  trying  to  select  my  fa- 
vorite crappies  and  small  catfish. 

"Let  me  take  that  net,"  said  Bill,  and  he  proceeded  to 
lift  the  fish  by  the  netful.  The  spear  was  of  no  use;  it 


310  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

would  only  mar  the  fish,  and  we  could  take  all  we  wanted 
with  the  net. 

After  a  while,  when  there  was  about  one  hundred 
pounds  of  fish  on  the  ice,  I  thought  it  time  to  quit,  and 
mentioned  the  fact  that  we  had  all  we  could  carry  and 
enough  for  ourselves  and  friends.  There  seemed  no  use 
to  kill  more. 

"I  don't  intend  to  stop  short  of  a  ton,"  said  Bill. 
"Henry,  you  go  back  to  the  village,  and  get  a  team  from 
Jo  Hall  and  a  bob-sled,  and  we'll  take  a  load  of  the  best 
of  these  to  Dubuque,  and  if  they  take  well  we'll  give  'em 
another  load  this  week.  Keep  it  still,  or  there'll  be  a  big 
gang  down  here  to  take  a  share  in  the  fish." 

This  was  taking  a  commercial  view  of  the  fishing,  and 
I  said  to  Bill,  after  Henry  had  gone:  "I  never  liked  to 
see  men  rob  the  woods  of  game  and  the  waters  of  fish  to 
send  to  market,  and  I  only  thought  to  come  down  and 
get  a  few  for  our  own  use.  It's  this  wholesale  slaughter 
for  market  that  has  made  the  East  barren  of  fish  and 
game,  and  I've  talked  against  it  there  and  I  don't  want 
to  engage  in  it  here.  Fur  is  a  different  thing  from 
game,  and  I  could  trap  for  a  living  easy  enough,  but 
somehow  it  doesn't  seem  right  to  take  advantage  of  those 
fish  and  market  them,  when  if  we  take  what  we  want  and 
leave  the  rest  to  breed,  there  will  always  be  plenty  for  us." 

Bill's  remarks,  carefully  expurgated,  were  something 
like  this,  but  contained  more  adjectives,  for  in  his  ordi- 
nary conversation  he  "swore  like  our  army  in  Flanders:" 
"Look  a-here!  What  are  you  chinnin'  about,  anyhow? 
I've  been  all  over  Sonora,  New  Mexico  and  Californy, 
and  fished  in  more  rivers  than  you  ever  see,  but  these 
Mississippi  bottoms  are  different.  It's  this  way:  In  the 
spring  and  fall  there's  a  heap  o'  water  comes  down  this 
valley,  an'  it  overflows  all  these  bottom  lands,  and  the  fish 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  311 

come  up  close  to  the  bluffs  to  keep  from  being  swept 
down  in  the  current.  When  the  water  falls  they  get 
trapped  in  these  holes,  and  thereTthey  are." 

"Yes;  but  when  the  spring  freshet  comes  don't  they 
swim  out  and  go  to  their  breeding  grounds,  and  so  keep 
the  river  stocked?" 

"Not  by,"  and  he  referred  to  a  spot  where  a  mill 
might  be  placed.  "These  ponds  freeze  over  tight  and 
the  fish  die.  They  die  in  thousands  of  just  such  holes  all 
along  the  river,  and  they  have  died  in  this  hole  year  after 
year.  This  spring  water  coming  in  here  is  a  new  thing; 
it  wasn't  here  last  winter,  and  it  may  stop  or  cold  weather 
may  close  it;  I  don't  care  whether  it  does  or  not,  there's 
a  chance  to  send  a  sleigh  load  of  fish  to  Dubuque,  and 
that's  all  there  is  of  it." 

I  saw  it  was  as  he  said.  I  cut  into  some  of  these  pond 
holes  later  in  the  winter,  and  found  a  stench  of  decaying 
fish.  Within  the  past  few  years  the  United  States  Fish 
Commission,  through  the  urgent  requests  of  Colonel  S. 
P.  Bartlett,  of  the  Illinois  Commission,  has  sent  a  car  up 
the  river,  and  seined  the  imprisoned  fish  from  these  holes 
and  returned  them  to  the  river — as  good  a  work  as  hatch- 
ing millions  of  fish  eggs;  perhaps  better,  for  it  saves  the 
parents,  and  allows  them  to  breed  next  spring. 

Henry  came  with  the  team,  and  found  us  on  the  shore 
cooking  fish  and  frying  sausages  for  dinner.  Bill  thought 
he  was  as  good  a  camp  cook  as  I,  but  we  differed  on  that 
point.  Without  discussing  the  question,  I  feel  impelled 
to  go  off  the  track  to  say:  Our  open-air  appetites,  whether 
in  the  woods  or  on  the  waters,  make  camp  cooking  seem 
superlative.  Benedick  says  in  "Much  Ado  About  Noth- 
ing:" "But  doth  not  the  appetite  alter?  A  man  loves  the 
meat  in  his  youth  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age." 

This  leads  me  to  say  that  after  many  years'  experience 


312  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

in  all  kinds  of  dining — strike  me  if  you  will — it  is  now 
my  mature  judgment  that  taking  a  dinner  in  the  abstract, 
without  any  of  the  poetical  surroundings  of  the  chase, 
and  the  sentiment  which  hovers  about  game  killed  and 
cooked  by  yourself,  a  grand  dinner  served  by  a  com- 
petent chef  to  gentlemen  in  evening  dress  has  a  charm 
for  me  that  increases  with  age.  Not  that  I  have  lost  all 
taste  for  an  al  fresco  feast  in  camp  style;  but  there  are 
pleasures  of  many  kinds,  and  they  are  not  always  com- 
parable. I  only  draw  the  line  at  those  messes  called 
clam  chowders,  fish  chowders  and  the  nightmare  provok- 
ing clambake.  These  may  be  classed  as  coarse  feed- 
ing, but  I  have  had  as  delicious  trout,  venison  and  other 
game  served  in  camp  as  ever  tickled  a  tongue.  Yet  a 
service  in  courses,  the  varied  products  of  the  vineyards, 
the  fruits  and  desserts — I  like  all  good  things,  but  the 
best  of  all  is  good  company,  whether  in  evening  dress  or 
flannel  shirt;  yet  I  can't  admit  that  camp  cookery  excels 
the  best  hotel  cookery,  taking  each  on  its  merits  outside 
of  sentiment.  We  deceive  ourselves  in  this;  we  come 
in  hungry  enough  to  eat  a  bear  before  his  skin  is  off,  and 
"hunger  is  the  best  of  sauce." 

You  have  often  come  into  camp  with  a  string  of  trout 
and  had  to  clean  and  cook  them  before  you  could  eat 
supper.  You  stuck  a  stick  in  the  gills  with  a  bit  of  pork 
in  the  mouth,  and  stood  them  up  before  the  fire  and 
turned  them  when  necessary.  When  you  thought  they 
were  done  you  sat  down,  and  ate  them  half  raw  and  half 
burned,  and  your  hunger  prompted  you  to  say  that  you 
never  ate  such  trout  before  in  your  life.  If  trout  cooked 
in  that  same  way  were  set  before  you  in  a  restaurant  you 
would  reject  them  as  unfit  to  eat.  But  the  memory  of  a 
camp  dinner  with  an  appetite  only  six  hours  old,  but  very 
large  for  its  age,  has  a  halo  around  it  that  should  properly 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  313 

encircle  the  appetite.  Though  not  a  taxidermist,  I  have 
stuffed  several  thousand  first-class  appetites,  but  never 
could  preserve  one. 

Henry  sat  down  and  helped  us  out  on  the  dinner,  and 
told  how  he  had  thrown  the  villagers  off  the  track  by 
saying  that  we  had  killed  two  deer  and  a  bear,  and  needed 
a  sleigh  to  bring  them  in.  A  mink  trotted  down  along 
the  shore  to  the  hole  where  he  usually  fished,  stopped 
short  of  it,  looked  over  at  us  and  took  the  back  track. 
Henry  said:  "That  mink  made  a  mistake,  and  thought  it 
was  Friday.  When  he  saw  us  eating  sausage  the  fact 
that  it  was  Thursday  dawned  on  him,  and  he  left  for  the 
landing  and  Chapman's  chicken  house." 

We  sorted  the  fish,  throwing  all  gars,  dogfish,  red- 
horse  and  other  poor  kinds  aside,  and  loaded  the  sleigh- 
box  with  bass,  pike  and  crappie,  and  my  two  companions 
started  down  the  river  on  the  ice  for  Dubuque,  la.,  some 
dozen  miles  below,  and  after  waiting  a  while  I  got  a  team 
which  had  brought  pig  lead  to  the  landing  to  take  up  a 
good  lot  of  fish  and  our  traps  to  the  village.  Besides 
these  things  there  was  a  bag  with  about  a  bushel  of  young 
fish  of  many  kinds,  which  had  been  seined  out  of  the 
spring  by  the  mosquito  netting  which  Henry  had 
brought.  None  of  these  were  over  two  inches  long,  and 
I  was  in  doubt  what  they  were  intended  for  until  Bill 
said:  "You  spread  these  little  fish  out  so  that  they  don't 
heat  nor  freeze,  and  when  we  get  back  I'll  have  'em 
cooked  as  the  Mexicans  used  to  cook  'em  down  in  So- 
nora.  I've  seen  lots  of  things  out  there  that  you  fellows 
never  dreamed  of,  and  here  I  am  wasting  my  time  in 
these  old  lead  mines.  What's  lead  worth?  Thirty  dol- 
lars a  thousand!  I  mined  for  gold  worth  $20  an  ounce. 
Say,  when  you  get  them  fish  to  Potosi  and  go  to  dividin' 
'em,  just  lay  out  some  o'  the  best  for  old  John  Jamison 


314  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

and  the  widow  on  the  British  Hollow  road.  We'll  be 
back  to-night  or  to-morrow,  and  if  this  trip  pays  we'll 
do  her  again.  Goodby." 

The  team  I  found  at  the  landing  was  from  British 
Hollow,  and  the  driver  gladly  went  over  to  the  fishing 
place.  I  told  him  to  pick  out  all  the  fish  he  wanted,  and 
put  them  in  front  so  that  they  couldn't  be  given  away. 
I  had  the  fish  assorted  for  the  different  people,  and  deliv- 
ered all  but  the  last  two  lots.  We  stopped  at  Jamison's, 
and  at  my  call  a  man  came  out  to  know  what  I  wanted. 

"I've  a  lot  of  fish  for  John  that  Bill  Patterson  has  sent 
up  to  him;  Bill  knows  John  well,  and  here  they  are;  I 
s'pose  you're  John,  and  you  will  remember  that  we  sent 
you  up  some  venison  about  the  New  Year." 

The  man  took  the  fish  and  said :  "John  died  early  this 
morning,  but  his  children  may  use  them,  and  no  doubt 
will  be  glad  of  them,  for  John  left  nothing;  he's  been  an 
invalid  so  long.  As  a  friend  of  the  family,  I  thank  Mr. 

Patterson  and  you "  but  I  had  started  the  horses  on, 

saying  to  the  driver:  "Get  out  of  this  quick!  We  can't 
do  any  good  and — let  the  horses  go." 

A  few  rods  brought  us  to  the  cabin  of  the  widow. 
She  came  to  the  door  in  response  to  a  knock,  and  I 
stepped  in  and  explained  my  errand.  Something  in  her 
manner  made  me  lower  my  voice,  and  she  began  to  cry. 
By  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle  I  saw  that  she  was  a  poor, 
thin,  careworn  woman,  and  I  fumbled  the  cap  in  my 
hands  awkwardly,  hardly  knowing  how  to  get  out  of  the 
house  without  indecent  haste.  She  was  prematurely  old, 
and  it  was  doubtful  if  she  had  ever  been  even  passably 
good-looking.  Poverty  and  care  were  stamped  in  every 
line  of  her  face.  She  might  have  been  thirty,  but  looked 
to  be  twice  as  old.  Her  little  girl,  an  only  child,  was  very 
ill.  Would  I  look  at  it? 


SERGEANT  WILLIAM  PATTERSON.  315 

I  followed  her  to  a  back  room,  and  found  a  child  of 
about  six  years  lying  on  a  bed  and  apparently  asleep, 
but  twitching  violently.  Then  came  a  muscular  spasm 
which  doubled  the  little  sufferer  up,  and  I  was  alarmed. 

"Has  a  doctor  seen  the  child?" 

"No;  I  thought  she'd  get  over  it  without  the  expense 
of  a  doctor,  for  I  am  very  poor.  My  husband  was  hurt 
a  year  ago  by  a  fall  down  a  shaft,  and  died  last  October. 
I've  worked  when  I  could  get  work,  but  have  not  been 
strong  enough  to  do  much.  It's  a  hard  world  for  the 
poor  and  weak,  and  if  my  little  girl  goes  from  me  I  want 
to  go,  too." 

I  don't  know  that  it  did  any  good,  but  I  took  the  girl 
in  my  arms,  and  walked  the  floor  with  her,  trying  to  help 
her  unconscious  struggles.  When  the  spasm  passed  I 
laid  her  on  the  bed,  and  went  out  to  find  some  one  to  go 
for  a  doctor.  I  found  a  man  going  to  Potosi  on  foot, 
and  told  him  to  send  Dr.  Gibson  out  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment, and  returned  to  the  house.  If  the  doctor  would 
only  come,  and  let  me  get  out!  The  time  passed  so 
slowly.  I  was  not  fitted  by  nature  to  be  either  a  doctor 
or  an  undertaker,  and  suffering  which  I  could  not  relieve 
was  a  thing  to  be  left  to  itself;  but  I  could  not  leave  it. 
The  child  had  several  spasms,  and  the  night  passed  over 
a  little  cabin  with  sorrowing  mother  and  a  dying  child 
in  the  arms  of  a  rough,  untrained  fellow,  who  would  help 
both  if  he  only  knew  how  to  do  it,  but  who  wished  him- 
self a  thousand  miles  away. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  be  missed, 
so  busy  was  my  mind  with  the  misery  in  the  cabin,  and 
when  a  jangle  of  sleigh  bells  stopped  in  front  of  the  cabin 
long  after  midnight  I  mentally  said:  "There  comes  the 
doctor." 

I  was  walking  the  floor  with  the  child  in  my  arms, 


316  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

when  the  door  opened  and  the  doctor  came  in,  followed 
by  Bill  Patterson,  Henry  Neaville,  Mrs.  Patterson  and  a 
dozen  other  men  and  women. 

"What  had  kept  me  so  long?"  "Why  didn't  you  come 
home?"  Bill  said:  "When  we  sold  them  fish  in  Dubuque 
for  less  than  we've  got  to  pay  Jo  Hall  for  the  team,  I 
said:  'I'll  be  blessed  if  I  ever  take  another  load  of  fish  to 
Dubuque.'  If  you've  got  them  little  fish  all  in  good 
order  we'll  have  'em  fried  at  Johnny  Nicholas'  restaurant 
to-morrow  night,  and  I  tell  you  they'll  be  fine.  Hello! 
What's  the  matter?" 

While  he  was  talking  to  me  the  mother  of  the  child 
dropped  fainting  to  the  floor,  for  she  had  seen  the  women 
take  the  child  from  my  arms— dead ! 


WILLIAM   WARREN. 

SHOOTING     FISH     IN    KANSAS — BACHELOR'S     HALL — THE 
BORDER  WAR. 

IT  is  a  blessed  privilege  to  be  past  the  meridian  of  life 
to-day.  What  a  store  we  white-headed  fellows 
have  of  things  which  a  younger  generation  of  men 
can  never  attain!  In  the  charmed  recesses  of  remem- 
brance lie  the  vast  flocks  of  wild  pigeons,  and  of  game  to 
be  had  in  an  hour's  walk,  where  now  there  is  naught  of 
life  save  the  abominable  imported  sparrow.  And  then 
there  was  the  grand  and  glorious  Civil  War — but  I  must 
not  write  of  that  further  than  to  say  to  the  young  men 
who  were  born  too  late  to  take  part  in  it  that  I  am  sorry 
for  them.  Still  they  have  the  compensations  of  youth, 
and  if  they  are  fortunate  enough  to  live  where  there  is 
still  some  game  left,  or  if  they  have  the  means  to  travel 
to  the  far-off  places,  they  will,  after  they  get  past  the 
noon  of  life,  have  the  same  feeling  of  commiseration  for 
the  boys  who  are  forty  years  in  the  rear  of  them  which 
I  have  expressed. 

There  are  two  reasons  for  writing  the  above  para- 
graph; one  was  because  I  accompanied  Warren  on  my 
first  and  only  buffalo  hunt,  and  the  other  was  because 
while  taking  "a  cold  bottle  and  a  hot  bird"  with  my  old 
army  companion,  Baron  Berthold  Fernow,  once  of  Po- 
land, but  later  Major  of  United  States  Volunteers  and  of 
the  Topographical  Corps  of  Sherman's  army,  last  winter, 
the  Major,  in  response  to  a  question  if  he  was  still  living 
in  Albany,  said:  "No,  I  am  now  living  at  151  West  Sixty- 
first  street,  in  this  city,  a  place  where  I  used  to  shoot  rab- 

317 


318  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

bits  when  I  first  came  to  America,  and  where  I  once  got 
lost  in  the  underbrush  and  strayed  away  off  to  the  north- 
east, where  the  Astoria  ferry  now  is."  Think  of  it!  The 
street  is  near  the  lower  end  of  Central  Park,  and  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  city.  The  late  ex-President  Chester 
A.  Arthur  told  me  that  he  had  shot  woodcock  where  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  now  stands,  and  that  is  only  at 
Twenty-third  street.  All  this  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  my  fishing  with  William  Warren  further  than  to 
show  what  changes  take  place  in  our  rapidly  growing 
country.  As  a  historian,  in  a  feeble  way  I  record  it.  As 
an  American  and  a  naturalist,  I  regret  it.  Emigration 
has  been  encouraged  to  build  great  cities  where  the  buf- 
falo should  still  range  over  territories  which  ought  to 
have  been  left  for  Americans  who  will  be  born  a  century 
hence.  These  sentiments  prove  to  you  that  I  am  an 
"old  fogy,"  but  one  who  believes  that  we  should  not  give 
away  our  great  farm  when  we  have  children  growing; 
but  that  is  "politics,"  and  so  we  will  go  on  to  tell  about 
this  man  with  whom  I  fished  in  Kansas  in  the  year  1857. 

I  was  boarding  with  a  man  named  Serrine,  on  the 
Cottonwood,  while  looking  up  a  suitable  place  to  claim 
a  quarter-section,  and  Warren  came  there  often.  He 
was  from  Chicago,  and  had  a  claim  over  on  the  Neosho. 

He  was  a  big,  strong  fellow,  about  twenty-five  years 
old,  with  a  dark,  pleasant  face  and  a  habit  of  clipping  his 
words.  A  favorite  way  to  begin  a  sentence  was  with 
the  word  "Betcher,"  which  stood  in  his  vocabulary  for 
"I'll  bet  you."  So  one  day  in  the  spring  he  said  to  me : 

"Betcher  da'sent  take  a  day  off  o'  land-lookin'  an'  go 
shootin'  buffler  fish;  they're  just  comin'  up  on  the  riffles 
now  and  a-wallerin'.  They're  thicker  'n  hair  on  a  dog; 
'f  you  never  shot  'em  you'll  like  it.  What  yer  say?" 

My  rifle  had  been  packed  in  a  chest  and  sent  by 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  319 

freight  from  Potosi,  Wis.,  and  the  chest  had  been  stolen 
somewhere  on  the  rivers  or  at  St.  Louis,  and  I  had  only 
a  Colt's  navy  revolver  to  shoot  with.  From  what  I  had 
seen  of  these  big,  unwieldy  buffalo  fish  on  the  riffles  it 
was  certain  that  the  revolver  was  good  enough  for  such 
work.  The  fish  were  very  plenty,  and  were  mating  and 
spawning  on  every  riffle,  but  at  the  least  alarm  would 
dodge  down  into  the  pools  below.  The  Cottonwood  was 
a  series  of  deep  pools  and  gravelly  riffles,  over  which  the 
water  flowed  swiftly,  and  sometimes  these  were  so  shal- 
low as  to  leave  the  hump-backed  buffalo  partly  out  of 
water.  The  river  may  have  averaged  sixty  feet  across, 
and  it  cut  through  a  deep  alluvial  soil,  forming  high 
banks  in  most  places,  except  at  the  inside  of  curves, 
where  the  current  had  made  a  gentle  slope  to  the  water. 
The  riffles  were  at  these  points,  and  we  could  get  near 
them  by  approaching  the  fish  from  the  low  side.  It  was 
not  a  particle  of  sport,  but  Warren  thought  it  fun,  and 
wanted  to  go  on  killing  after  we  had  more  than  we  could 
carry;  but  I  said  no,  and  we  strung  our  fish  and  went 
home. 

"Betcher  I  c'ld  kill  a  thousand  bufHer  in  half  a  day  an' 
not  go  over  two  mile  on  the  river.  What's  the  reason 
you  wouldn't  kill  any  more?  Don't  yer  like  the  fun?" 

"No;  there's  no  fun  in  killing  things  that  you  don't 
want  to  use,  unless  they're  rats  or  other  vermin  which 
annoy  you.  My  idea  of  sport  is  to  hunt  something 
which  is  hard  to  find,  and  is  some  use  after  you  have 
found  it.  Shooting  these  fish  is  good  enough  when  you 
want  a  change  of  diet  from  ham  and  salt  pork,  but  they're 
too  easy  for  sport.  As  you  say,  you  could  probably  kill 
a  thousand  in  half  a  day,  but  shooting  at  a  mark  is  just 
as  much  fun;  in  fact,  it  would  be  more  fun  for  me  than 
to  kill  things  for  the  mere  sake  of  killing." 


320  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

This  buffalo  fish  is  a  coarse  thing,  a  relative  of  the 
sucker  tribe,  with  a  similar  mouth ;  perhaps  it  is  as  good 
as  the  carp,  but  then  we  had  not  the  carp,  and  the  taste 
of  the  buffalo  has  faded  too  much  in  forty  years  for  com- 
parison. My  present  notion  is  that  both  are  worthless 
as  food,  but  a  residence  by  salt  water  may  have  spoiled 
me  for  enjoying  most  fresh- water  fish,  especially  carp 
and  suckers. 

Warren  sold  his  claim  and  took  another  while  I  was 
still  undecided,  and  we  put  up  a  little  cabin  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  and  "batched"  together.  Within  a  few  miles 
several  town  sites  were  laid  out  with  pegs,  each  with 
grand  parks,  court  house  squares  and  grand  avenues — on 

paper. 

"Behind  the  squaw's  light  bircK  canoe 

The  steamer  rocks  and  raves, 
And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 

Above  old  Indian  graves." — Whittier. 

The  genius  of  speculation  was  abroad,  and  within  a 
radius  of  five  miles  there  were  at  least  a  dozen  "future 
railroad  centres"  laid  out.  I  only  remember  "Columbia" 
on  the  Cottonwood,  where  there  was  a  grocery  and  gin- 
mill  combined,  kept  by  a  man  named  Jeff  Thompson. 
He  had  maps,  and  sold  lots  in  the  Eastern  cities  and  took 
in  what  he  could  gather.  He  offered  me  ten  lots  in  the 
heart  of  his  "city"  for  my  revolver,  but  somehow  I 
thought  I  needed  the  pistol  more  than  I  did  town  lots. 
Then  there  was  "Chicago,"  on  top  of  a  bluff,  where  I  shot 
sandhill  cranes  later  on,  which  never  got  beyond  the  peg 
and  map  stage.  Warren  had  a  big  interest  in  this,  and 
traded  some  lots  for  a  yoke  of  cattle  and  a  wagon.  I 
doubt  if  there  is  even  a  farm  house  there  to-day.  Em- 
poria  was  laid  out  high  on  the  open  prairie,  between  the 
Cottonwood  and  Neosho,  with  no  water  in  sight.  It  was 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  321 

not  a  promising  place  for  a  town,  but  when  my  father 
offered  to  send  me  his  double  fowling-piece  I  traded  the 
revolver  for  a  block  of  lots  in  Emporia. 

Warren  said:  "Betcher  your  revolver  is  gone,  lost, 
vanished,  an'  vamoosed.  Why,  that  place  will  never 
amount  to  a  hill  o'  beans,  but  if  you'd  invested  in  Chi- 
cago you'd  have  been  O.  K.  They've  dug  over  one  hun- 
dred feet  for  water  there  in  Emporia,  and  didn't  get  it. 
Whatter  they  goin'  to  do  without  water?  Just  dry  up, 
that's  all.  Betcher'll  wish  that  revolver  back  'fore  long, 
for  that  was  worth  something." 

There  was  a  big  push  behind  Emporia.  A  lot  of 
Eastern  capitalists  spent  money  to  find  water,  and  they 
found  it.  As  soon  as  it  was  struck  I  was  offered  $150  for 
my  lots,  and  I  shook  the  money  under  my  friend's  nose. 
That  find  of  water  after  nearly  a  year's  digging  made  a 
great  railroad  centre,  and  the  neighboring  "peg"  towns 
were  heard  of  no  more. 

Meanwhile  I  had  located  a  claim,  and  filed  it  at  the 
land  office.  This  gave  me  the  privilege,  as  an  actual 
settler,  of  pre-empting  or  buying  the  quarter-section  of 
160  acres  at  the  Government  price  of  $1.25  per  acre  be- 
fore the  tract  in  which  it  was  situated  was  offered  at  pub- 
lic sale.  That  spring  there  had  been  discoveries  of  great 
deposits  of  lead  in  the  Ozark  Mountains,  and  among  the 
miners  of  Potosi,  Wis.,  there  was  much  excitement  and 
considerable  emigration.  I  had  written  father  that  I 
would  go  to  the  mines  in  Missouri.  That  shirt  of  Nessus 
which  causes  the  restlessness  of  border  life  impelled  me  to 
go  somewhere.  I  had  tired  of  life  as  it  was  lived  in 
the  mines  and  woods  of  Wisconsin  and  Minnesota,  and 
a  new  field  of  adventure  was  opened.  With  the  average 
miner,  who  is  a  born  gambler,  there  was  the  prospect  of 
gain.  I  was  not  an  average  miner,  nor  a  born  gambler, 


322  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

and  only  wanted  change  and  adventure.  I  had  read  all 
about  Daniel  Boone,  Davy  Crockett,  Kit  Carson  and 
Cooper's  men  of  fiction,  and  dollars  cut  no  figure  in  my 
calculations.  I  was  young;  old  age  and  its  needs  seemed 
to  be  centuries  away,  if  indeed  it  was  ever  thought  of.  I 
revelled  in  my  youth  and  strength,  and  thought  they 
would  last  forever.  The  quarter  of  a  century  that  I  had 
lived  seemed  to  comprise  the  whole  existence  of  the 
world,  and  all  that  had  gone  before  my  recollection  was 
merely  a  fairy  tale. 

When  I  left  Albany,  in  1854,  my  father  had  exacted 
a  promise  that  I  would  not  join  an  expedition  against  the 
Indians.  He  knew  that  I  loved  a  fight  of  most  any  kind, 
and  when  he  learned  that  I  proposed  to  go  to  the  Ozarks 
he  wrote  me  that  he  wanted  me  to  go  to  Kansas  and 
select  a  farm  on  which  he  could  pass  his  declining  years. 
This  was  not  funny  then,  but  it  is  to-day.  My  father  was 
reared  on  a  farm,  but  left  it  when  eighteen  years  old,  and 
always  looked  to  getting  back  on  one.  Now,  when  I  am 
six  years  older  than  he  was  then,  I  know  that  his  nervous 
organization,  after  years  of  absence  from  farm  life,  was 
no  more  fitted  to  it  than  my  very  different  temperament 
was.  But  he  wrote  me  that  he  had  a  land  warrant  from 
the  War  of  1812  (not  his  own  by  right  of  service,  for  he 
was  born  in  1800),  and  that  he  wanted  me  to  select  the 
place  in  Kansas. 

The  newspapers  had  been  filled  with  accounts  of 
"bleeding  Kansas,"  and  the  troubles  were  not  entirely 
over  when  our  surveying  party  came  out  of  the  Minne- 
sota woods  in  the  last  month  of  1856.  There  was  a  fight 
there  over  the  slavery  question — a  matter  that  I  had  paid 
no  attention  to,  but  there  was  a  fight.  I  looked  around 
and  got  letters  of  introduction  to  General  Jim  Lane,  the 
"Free  State"  leader,  and  went  to  Kansas;  we  spelled  it 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  323 

Kanzas  in  those  days,  and  my  tongue  has  never  been 
able  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  modern  soft  way  of 
speaking  the  name. 

I  put  up  a  log  cabin  on  a  good  quarter-section  which 
had  a  stream  running  through  it,  and  also  had  several 
acres  of  timber — two  valuable  things  in  that  prairie  coun- 
try. Warren  helped  me  in  this,  and  also  in  splitting 
enough  black  walnut  and  mulberry  rails  to  fence  in  ten 
acres.  The  land  cost  $1.25  per  acre,  but  it  cost  $3  per 
acre  to  break  the  heavy  prairie  sod.  I  was  playing 
farmer!  , 

"One  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.    *    *    * " 

Warren  and  I  kept  bachelor's  hall  until  past  mid- 
summer, when  my  house  was  in  order  for  business,  and 
my  little  family  came  on  from  Wisconsin.  Our  work 
was  at  a  distance,  and  we  took  turns  at  cooking,  and  on 
Sundays  we  cleaned  up  and  washed  the  dishes.  A  very 
good  housekeeper  to  whom  I  told  this  asked  in  undis- 
guised astonishment:  "Didn't  you  wash  your  dishes  every 
day?  Why,  how  did  you  get  along?" 

"My  dear  madam,"  I  replied,  "you  are  a  most  excel- 
lent housekeeper  here  in  the  effete  East,  but  know  little 
how  to  manage  a  bachelor  establishment  in  Kansas  in 
that  early  day.  If  we  had  washed  our  tin  plates  after 
every  meal,  as  is  the  custom  in  some  places,  the  microbes 
set  free  from  the  newly-turned  sod  would  have  attached 
themselves  to  the  tin,  and  our  lives  would  have  been  in 
danger  from  tintinambulacra.  No,  my  dear  madam,  we 
did  not  dare  risk  it;  so  we  turned  our  plates  over  after 
each  meal  to  protect  them,  and  only  dared  to  wash  them 
once  a  week.  This  was  a  fearful  risk,  but  we  did  it;  I 
now  think  it  would  be  safer  not  to  have  exposed  the  plates 


324:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

to  the  influence  of  hot  water  and  soap  at  all,  but  for- 
tunately we  escaped  all  harm — perhaps  because  we  had 
youth  on  our  side." 

She  paused  a  moment,  drew  a  long  breath  and  said: 

"You  don't  tell  me .  Oh,  men  are  horrid,  anyway! 

I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!" 

Warren  said :  "When  you  take  the  ox  team  up  to  Em- 
poria  after  the  mail  and  provisions,  see  if  you  can't  get 
some  vegetables.  The  cows  got  into  my  garden,  and 
cleaned  up  what  the  'coons,  bugs  and  other  things  left, 
and  we  want  some  green  stuff;  see  if  you  can  get  some 
onions,  beets,  cucumbers,  or  anything." 

Among  the  things  which  I  brought  was  a  fine  bunch 
of  early  beets,  and  we  promised  ourselves  a  treat.  We 
peeled  and  sliced  them,  and  put  them  in  vinegar.  Next 
day  they  were  set  out  for  the  evening  meal,  when  we 
talked  about  them. 

"Betcher,"  said  Warren,  "them  beets  is  more'n  a  hun- 
dred years  old.  I've  seen  lots  o'  beets,  but  they  wuz 
allers  tender  an'  good." 

"They  can't  be  old.  They  don't  keep  beets  over  a 
year  like  dried  beans;  besides,  didn't  you  see  the  tops 
were  green?  I  think  they're  a  new  kind,  or  else  the  soil 
here  is  not  good  for  beets." 

"Betcher  they  ain't  cut  thin  enough  for  the  vinegar  to 
sof'en  'em.  These  cukes  are  all  right;  they're  cut  thin, 
and  the  vinegar  goes  right  through  'em  and  they're  ten- 
der." 

"Yes,  the  cucumbers  are  good  enough,  but  what  ails 
the  beets  I  don't  know.  I've  often  eaten  'em  at  home 
when  mother  cut  'em  up  in  vinegar ;  perhaps  they  want  to 
be  soaked  in  vinegar  longer  to  make  'em  tender;  I  don't 
know  just  how  long  they  have  to  stay  in  vinegar  before 
they're  fit  to  eat." 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  325 

"Betcher  right!  Let  'em  soak  awhile  an*  they'll  get 
tender,  an'  beets  is  a  mighty  good  relish,  too;  they're 
good  for  what  ails  you;  for  a  man  can't  live  on  salt  pork, 
ham  and  all  that  stuff,  salt  codfish  and  mackerel  and 
sich  like,  without  a  little  vegetable  food,  or  he  will  go  to 
the  bad;  betcher  life  he  wants  a  change.  Just  put  them 
beets  away  until  they  get  tender;  that's  all  they  want." 

The  beets  were  set  aside  in  vinegar  until  such  time  as 
they  might  be  fit  to  eat.  We  sampled  them  daily,  but 
there  was  no  perceptible  improvement,  and  Sunday 
came.  After  cleaning  house,  or  kitchen  and  dining- 
room — for  our  10x12  cabin  was  not  only  these,  but  also 
our  grand  salon — we  brushed  ourselves  up,  and  walked 
up  to  Serrine's  ranch,  where  Mrs.  S.  and  Mrs.  Judge 
Howell  were  discussing  some  abstruse  question,  of 
which  we  were  ignorant,  when  they  both  turned  and  in 
the  same  breath  asked  how  we  were  getting  along  with 
our  "batching."  Warren  went  into  details  about  the  bis- 
cuit, pancakes,  roasts,  fries  and  stews,  and  finally  men- 
tioned the  difficulty  with  the  beets. 

There  was  an  instantaneous  duet  of  soprano  and  con- 
tralto: "Didn't  you  boil  'em  first?" 

I  sneaked  outside  at  once,  and  have  no  idea  of  how 
Warren  stood  off  the  two  women ;  but  the  logs  of  the 
house  were  not  chinked  tightly  enough  to  keep  out  a 
whole  mess  of  laughter,  which  came  through  in  ripples 
at  first,  then  in  waves,  and  finally  in  shrieks  that  toppled 
the  barrel  from  the  chimney,  and  then  the  cabin  filled 
with  smoke. 

On  our  way  down  the  Cottonwood  we  said  little  until 
we  got  to  the  door  of  our  castle,  when  Warren  turned 
and  said :  "Did  you  know  that  beets  should  be  boiled  be- 
fore they  were  sliced  and  cut  up  in  vinegar?" 

"Well,  no;  not  exactly  boiled,  but  I  knew  that  some- 


326  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

thing  ought  to  be  done  to  them  like  baking  or  frying 
or " 

"Betcher  didn't  know  but  what  they  were  just  cut  up 
in  vinegar  like  cucumbers,  just  as  I  thought.  Betcher 
Mrs.  Howell  will  spread  that  story,  an'  every  woman  up 
both  rivers  will  know  the  beet  story  before  a  week. 
Well,  let  'em.  There's  a  whole  mess  of  things  that  they 
don't  know.  How  in  Gibraltar  do  they  s'pose  a  fellow  is 
to  know  that  the  tender  beets  that  he  finds  on  the  table 
have  been  boiled,  any  more  than  the  cucumbers  have 
been  boiled?" 

The  slavery  troubles,  which  had  partly  subsided,  be- 
gan to  break  out  afresh,  and  it  was  evident  that  another 
great  effort  to  make  Kansas  a  slave  State  would  be  made. 
Congress  had  already  abrogated  the  Missouri  Compro- 
mise, and  this  opened  the  Territories  of  Kansas  and  Ne- 
braska to  the  slave  power,  as  it  left  the  question  to  be 
decided  by  the  actual  settlers.  Two  conflicting  Terri- 
torial governments  had  been  established.  Blood  had 
been  shed  at  the  first  election,  when  armed  invaders  had 
taken  possession  of  the  polls  and  elected  a  lot  of  non- 
resident pro-slavery  men  as  a  Legislature,  which  passed 
a  law  making  it  a  capital  offence  to  harbor  or  assist  run- 
away slaves;  and  they  had  the  backing  of  President 
Buchanan,  and  the  support  of  General  Harney,  then  in 
command  at  Fort  Leavenworth.  But  against  this  was  a 
great  majority,  who  had  determined  that  Kansas  should 
enter  the  Union  as  a  free  State  or  not  at  all. 

Our  section  was  comparatively  quiet.  We  were  run- 
ning short  on  provisions,  and,  as  the  staple  articles  were 
costly  owing  to  the  long  haul  by  teams,  we  would  take 
our  teams  to  Fort  Leavenworth,  lay  in  half  a  dozen  bags 
of  flour — it  came  in  one  hundred  pound  bags — sugar, 
coffee,  pork,  bacon  and  other  things,  saving  the  trans- 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  327 

portation  and  the  profit  of  the  local  trader.  The  prairie 
roads  were  good  in  June,  and  at  the  frequent  streams 
good  camping  places  were  always  found  with  the  three 
prime  requisites — wood,  water  and  grass.  At  Lawrence 
we  fished  in  the  Kaw  River,  and  caught  seven  catfish, 
one  of  which  weighed  nine  pounds;  we  ate  the  smaller 
ones,  and  gave  the  big  one  to  a  passing  family  in  a  prairie 
schooner. 

There  was  a  municipal  election  while  we  were  in 
Leavenworth.  The  Free  State  men  won,  but  there  was 
a  lot  of  beautiful  fights.  A  border  ruffian  named  Lyle, 
who  had  murdered  several  men,  provoked  a  fight  with 
an  old  man,  and  was  killed  by  a  Free  State  man  named 
Hallen,  who  was  arrested. 

The  excitement  was  intense  and  contagious.  Few 
slept  that  night.  Warren  and  I  volunteered,  with  others, 
to  guard  Hallen ;  but  there  was  no  attempt  made  to  lynch 
him.  Next  morning  Hallen  was  refused  bail,  and  was 
committed  to  Fort  Leavenworth  for  safe-keeping,  and 
only  our  respect  for  the  uniform  of  Uncle  Sam  allowed  a 
sergeant  and  a  squad  to  remove  him;  but  Hallen  bribed  a 
guard  and  escaped,  went  to  Lawrence  and  was  never  dis- 
turbed. 

The  buffalo  country  was  west  of  us,  but  there  re- 
mained a  few  deer  and  antelope,  as  well  as  wild  turkeys, 
along  the  Cottonwood  and  Neosho,  and  Warren  and  I 
each  had  a  Sharps  rifle,  which  had  been  sent  from  the 
East  to  help  make  Kansas  a  free  State,  and  which  had 
been  issued  to  us  at  Leavenworth  while  guarding  Hallen. 
October  had  come,  and  one  morning  there  was  a  light  fall 
of  snow,  and  Warren  came  to  my  cabin.  "Hurry  up," 
he  called,  "there's  a  deer's  track  going  straight  for  that 
bunch  of  willows  in  the  buffalo  wallow  over  there  to  the 
west,  where  we  shot  the  prairie  chickens  a  week  ago." 


328  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

We  struck  the  track  in  the  fast  melting  snow,  and  came 
up  to  within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  wallow,  which  was 
a  small  one  not  over  fifty  feet  in  diameter,  and  then  con- 
sulted in  a  whisper  how  we  should  form  for  the  attack. 
We  had  come  up  against  the  wind,  and  there  seemed 
ample  time  to  consult,  when — a  flash  of  gray  bounded 
out  on  the  prairie  from  the  other  side  of  the  wallow, 
gathered  its  legs  and  leaped  again  as  two  rifles  called 
"Halt!"  The  buck  halted  and  never  went  again.  One 
bullet  nearly  severed  a  hind  hoof,  and  one  plowed  up 
from  below  through  his  heart.  Both  rifles  were  of  the 
same  calibre,  and  who  it  was  that  killed  that  deer  remains 
as  obscure  as  "the  mystery  of  Gilgal." 

We  bought  Indian  ponies,  cheap  but  serviceable,  and 
accustomed  to  any  amount  of  abuse,  for  an  Indian  never 
has  a  particle  of  regard  for  a  saddle  sore,  but  claps  on 
the  saddle  in  the  same  old  place  in  perfect  indifference 
to  the  suffering  of  an  animal,  and  this  trait  has  hardened 
my  heart  against  the  red  man;  he  has  no  sympathy  for 
suffering — not  even  his  own.  He  has  served  the  pur- 
pose for  which  he  was  placed  here  just  as  other  created 
things  have,  and  he  dies  out  before  civilization  and  must 
go,  as  we  must  when  we  have  exhausted  the  coal  which 
was  stored  up  for  our  advent,  and  our  planet  falls  in  line 
with  the  dead  worlds  which — have  no  Indian  ponies. 

A  little  castile  soap  and  water,  with  tallow  afterward, 
soon  put  our  ponies  in  shape  for  travel,  and  as  the  winter 
came  on  the  troubled  times  increased.  The  bogus  Legis- 
lature of  Lecompton  had  authorized  a  convention  to 
form  a  State  constitution  during  the  summer,  and  things 
were  getting  red  hot.  Warren  and  I  decided  to  go  to 
Lawrence,  and  offer  our  services  to  General  Jim  Lane. 
At  that  time  we  thought  Lane  to  be  the  best  and  greatest 
living  American.  He  could  sway  men  by  his  impas- 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  329 

sioned  oratory,  to  which  his  profanity  added  the  charm 
of  emphasis.  We  had  met  old  John  Brown  down  at 
Osawatomie,  and  would  have  none  of  him.  Brown  was 
sitting  by  the  roadside  singing  "Blow  ye  the  trumpet, 
blow,"  through  his  nose,  and  Warren  said: 

"B etcher  he's  an  ole  feller  that  turns  his  camp  into  a 
Sunday-school  half  a  dozen  times  a  day;  I  don't  want 
any  of  him;  if  you  want  to  go  with  him,  all  right;  Jim 
Lane  is  good  enough  for  me." 

Said  I:  "Billy,  I've  got  no  more  use  for  old  Osawa- 
tomie  than  you  have.  There  wouldn't  be  a  bit  of  fun 
with  him.  He's  a  religious  fanatic,  and  says  that  the 
Lord  has  sent  him  here  to  do  things.  I  don't  object  to 
his  doing  things,  but  he  won't  get  me  to  serve  under 
him.  I  don't  like  him,  and  that's  all  there  is  of  it.  He's 
in  dead  earnest;  but  so  is  Jim  Lane,  and  Jim  is  the  man 
to  make  things  hump." 

We  went  back  home.  To-day  the  fame  of  John 
Brown,  who  freely  gave  his  life  for  a  cause,  is  sung  all 
over  the  North,  while  my  hero,  General  Jim  Lane,  is  re- 
membered by  a  few  as  a  political  trickster,  who  killed  a 
man  that  contested  his  claim  to  land,  was  tried  and 
acquitted  (for  that  was  a  frontier  custom),  and  then  for  six 
years  represented  Kansas  in  the  United  States  Senate. 
Then,  following  the  lead  of  President  Andrew  Johnson, 
he  received  the  indignant  reproval  of  his  constituents, 
and  died  by  his  own  hand.  How  differently  we  look  at 
men  and  things  when  they  are  as  widely  separated  as  then 
and  now,  when  the  cool  judgment  of  sixty-three  sits  upon 
the  rash  impulses  of  the  boy  forty  years  ago. 

It  was  in  the  southeastern  portion  where  things  were 
hottest,  and  where  there  was  more  or  less  desultory  fight- 
ing, but  party  feeling  ran  high  up  the  Cottonwood,  and 
several  Free  State  men  had  notices  pinned  on  their  doors 


330  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

warning  them  to  leave  the  territory,  or  they  would  be 
killed.  I  had  a  Sharps  rifle  and  a  double  shotgun,  and 
bought  a  revolver  from  a  soldier  who  had  come  down 
our  way  on  some  business  and  had  no  money  to  get  back. 
It  was  a  Colt's  army,  big  of  bore  and  not  very  accurate. 
Every  man  carried  a  revolver,  and  I  would  as  soon  think 
of  going  to  the  spring  for  water  without  a  pail  as  without 
a  pistol  in  my  belt.  I  destroyed  the  notice  found  on  my 
door;  it  wasn't  just  the  thing  for  a  woman  to  see;  you 
Lknow  how  they  are  about  such  things;  so  I  closed  my 
castle,  and  left  the  little  family  in  Emporia,  giving  as  a 
reason  that  Warren  and  I  wanted  to  examine  some  land 
further  west,  and  might  be  away  a  month,  and  so 
smoothed  it  over  while  we  started  for  Lawrence  to  con- 
sult General  Jim  Lane.  James  W.  Denver  had  super- 
seded Walker  as  Governor  in  December,  and  he  struck 
a  snag  on  the  start.  About  a  year  before  this  the  pro- 
slavery  officials  had  seized  a  wagon  containing  150 
muskets  and  carbines  from  an  emigrant  train,  and  had 
stored  them  in  the  cellar  under  the  Governor's  residence 
in  Lecompton. 

"Boys,"  said  Lane,  "you  are  just  in  time.  Colonel 
Eldridge  is  going  to  start  with  a  battalion  to  get  a  lot  of 
rifles  that  belong  to  us,  and  he  may  have  to  fight  to  get 
'em;  but  we'll  have  'em,  sure.  Do  you  want  to  go?" 

"Betcher,"  said  Warren;  "we  came  up  to  take  a  hand 
in  anything  that's  going  on;  didn't  we,  pard?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "and  down  our  way  they're  threat- 
ening us,  and  we've  got  to  do  some  cleaning  out  down 
there  or  abandon  our  homes  and  be  cleaned  out.  So  far 
they  only  threaten,  but  we  know  how  every  man  stands 
in  the  whole  valley,  and  if  they  kill  one  of  us  the  cleaning 
out  will  begin  at  once,  and  will  be  thorough." 

We  went  to  Lecompton,  a  motley  crowd,  some  on 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  331 

foot  and  others,  like  Warren  and  I,  on  ponies;  I  should 
think  the  "battalion"  numbered  about  one  hundred. 
"Colonel"  Eldridge  made  a  demand  for  the  guns  as  pri- 
vate property,  and  wound  up  by  saying:  "Governor,  we 
merely  demand  our  own,  and  are  fully  armed  and  deter- 
mined to  have  those  arms.  Whether  there  will  be  a 
fight  for  them  rests  with  you  to  say."  That  was  an  ar- 
gument that  decided  the  case  in  our  favor.  The  history 
of  Kansas  shows  that  it  was  only  by  illegal  voting — "re- 
peating," as  it  was  called — that  the  Lecompton  constitu- 
tion was  adopted ;  but  I  can't  dwell  on  this. 

A  peculiar  state  of  affairs  existed.  The  Territorial 
Legislature  was  now  under  a  Free  State  majority,  and  it 
declared  the  last  election  to  be  fraudulent  and  ordered 
the  Lecompton  constitution  to  be  submitted  to  the  people 
on  January  4,  1858,  which  somehow  happened  to  be  the 
same  day  named  by  the  pro-slavery  authorities  for  the 
election  of  officers  under  that  constitution. 

Said  Warren:  "This  thing  has  got  to  be  fought  out. 
Voting  is  no  use.  For  every  man  our  side  can  get  here 
from  Boston  or  Chicago  the  'Border  Ruffians'  can  pour 
in  twenty  from  Missouri.  If  Congress  admits  Kansas 
in  as  a  State,  it  will  be  under  the  Lecompton  constitu- 
tion, which  permits  men  to  be  held  as  slaves.  If  we 
don't  vote  for  officers  we  can  claim  our  rights  and  fight 
for  them;  but  if  you  take  part  in  the  election  you  must 
abide  by  it." 

I  favored  voting,  and  we  discussed  this  in  our  feeble 
way  until  Warren  said:  "Betcher  da'sent  go  up  to  Law- 
rence and  see  what  Lane  says."  We  went  and  found  a 
convention  in  session  that  was  as  divided  as  we  were, 
and  that  Lane  had  a  body  of  men  down  near  Fort  Scott. 
Colonel  Eldridge  told  me  that  Lane  was  prepared  to 
fight  the  United  States  troops  if  necessary  if  the  Le- 


332  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

compton  men  called  them  out  to  assist  them,  and  that  he 
thought  it  best  to  vote.  Again  the  volcano  subsided, 
and  a  peaceful  victory  was  won  at  the  polls,  the  Free 
State  men  winning  every  office  under  the  hated  Lecomp- 
ton  constitution.  The  officers  elected  promptly  peti- 
tioned Congress  not  to  admit  Kansas  as  a  State  under 
the  present  constitution,  and  the  petition  being  granted 
it  put  them  all  out  of  office  from  Governor  down.  Times 
were  not  dull  there  at  that  time. 

Warren  sold  his  second  claim,  and  came  to  live  with 
me.  Game  was  plenty,  and  from  the  ridge  pole  away 
from  the  fireplace  there  was  always  a  turkey  or  two,  some 
part  of  a  deer  and  as  many  prairie  chickens  as  could  be 
used  before  spoiling.  Antelope  were  plenty,  but  I  killed 
only  one;  we  preferred  venison.  Near  the  timber  rab- 
bits abounded,  but  we  rarely  shot  them.  In  summer 
flocks  of  screaming  paroquets  went  swiftly  through  the 
woods,  but  boys  have  been  raised  since  and  have  no 
doubt  stopped  all  that.  The  mourning  dove  was  too 
common  for  comfort  if  one  was  splitting  rails  in  the 
woods;  its  melancholy  note  only  ceased  at  night.  A 
graceful  species  of  kite  sailed  over  the  prairie  looking 
for  snakes,  and  there  is  a  doubt  if  one  of  these  is  left. 
The  only  snakes  I  can  remember  seeing  was  a  striped 
one,  perhaps  the  "garter  snake,"  a  "blue  racer,"  which, 
I  think,  is  a  form  of  our  common  blacksnake,  and  the 
small  rattlesnake  called  massasauga,  which  inhabits 
prairies,  and  seldom  exceeds  two  feet  in  length. 

Occasionally  a  train  of  a  dozen  wagons  would  pass 
our  cabin  going  to  and  from  the  buffalo  ranges,  and 
often  left  us  a  quarter  of  beef,  but  neither  Warren  nor  I 
had  any  desire  to  go  on  these  hunts.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  everybody  else  went,  and  we  did  not  want  for 
fresh  meat.  In  the  summer  the  little  prairie  wolves  could 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  333 

be  heard  running  deer  or  antelope  most  every  night. 
No  one  called  them  prairie  wolves  there;  they  have 
another  name,  perhaps  Mexican  or  Indian,  but  people 
in  the  East  make  such  a  mess  of  pronouncing  it  that  the 
name  ought  not  to  be  printed.  I'll  tell  you:  the  name  is 
ki-o-ty,  but,  confound  'em,  the  scholars  spell  it  "coyote," 
and  that  leads  a  man  to  make  only  two  syllables  of  it. 
He  lives  in  the  ground,  like  a  fox,  and,  if  not  as  cunning 
as  reynard,  is  as  fleet  and  tireless,  and  it  is  said  that  he 
hunts  deer  in  relays,  one  gang  resting  till  the  other  brings 
the  quarry  back  on  the  circle.  He  doesn't  hunt  rabbits; 
just  picks  'em  up. 

One  day  Warren  came  in  with  four  little  pups  in  his 
coat.  I  didn't  need  a  "dog"  just  then,  but  somebody 
sjaid  they  were  "just  the  cutest  little  things  this  side  of 
the  Santa  Fe  trail,"  and  one  was  left  for  us.  The  young 

c grew  on  a  liberal  diet  of  milk  and  table  scraps,  but 

when  the  first  setting  hen  came  off  with  a  brood  he 
realized  his  place  in  nature.  He  was  the  fittest  and 
survived. 

The  old  hen  protested,  but  he  ignored  the  pro- 
test, and  ate  her  as  a  piece  de  resistance,  to  which  the 
chickens  had  been  merely  an  entree.  I  also  protested — 
with  a  switch,  but  Lupus  could  not  be  made  to  under- 
stand that  chickens  were  not  proper  things  to  eat.  At 
my  advanced  age  I  don't  understand  why  chickens  should 
not  be  eaten,  and  yet  I  tried  to  force  that  opinion  on  my 
protege.  He  disliked  discipline  in  all  its  abhorrent  forms 
of  switch,  club  or  boot,  and  before  long,  perhaps  the  time 
required  to  set  several  chicks  free  from  their  imprison- 
ment in  the  shell,  it  was  apparent  that  there  was  an  ab- 
sence of  cordiality  in  our  intercourse.  Lupus  was  kind 
to  all  but  me  after  I  put  a  chain  on  him  and  fenced  the 
chickens  from  his  domain.  He  preferred  to  chew  my 


334:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

hand  when  I  set  a  saucer  of  milk  before  him,  and  only 
touched  the  milk  when  my  hand  was  no  longer  available 
as  food.  Perhaps,  poor  fellow,  his  epicurean  palate 
longed  for  live  chicken,  and  resented  the  offer  of  their 
bones  after  his  master  had  taken  the  choice  parts.  Gurth, 
the  swineherd,  had  some  such  feeling  toward  Cedric,  the 
Saxon. 

We  passed  the  summer,  and  the  corn  had  nearly 
passed  the  roasting-ear  stage;  I  had  learned  to  guard 
myself  from  the  carnivorous  dentition  of  Lupus,  but  one 
day  Warren  called  out:  "The  cattle  are  in  the  corn!"  and 
surely  they  were. 

I  was  a  farmer.  Ten  acres  had  been  put  in  sod  corn 
and  there  was  a  crop.  The  crop  may  have  been  due  to 
the  richness  of  the  soil — or  to  my  excellent  farming,  if 
you  will.  But  the  fence  was  down,  and  half  a  dozen 
steers  and  some  cows  were  doing  to  that  corn  what  Lu- 
pus did  to  the  chickens.  Perhaps  they  were  right,  but 
it  was  no  time  for  argument.  I  rushed  out,  and  the  near- 
est way  was  past  the  kennel  of  Lupus.  He  was  lying 
quietly  within  until  I  passed,  when  he  suddenly  decided 
to  see  if  my  leg  might  not  have  a  better  flavor  than  my 
hand,  and  he  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and 
took  a  piece  of  it,  just  above  the  boot  leg,  where  I  kept 
a  favorite  muscle  well  trained  for  running  and  another 
for  kicking.  He  tackled  the  wrong  muscle,  and  the 
kicking  one  came  to  the  relief  of  its  neighbor  and  pro- 
jected a  boot  under  his  chin  with  such  force  that  he  was 
a-weary.  Other  leg  muscles  took  up  the  argument,  and 
somehow  the  same  boot  that  lifted  him  one  under  the 
jaw  cracked  his  skull,  and  his  hide  was  drying  on  the 
fence  an  hour  afterward. 

I  was  sorry,  very  sorry;  so  was  my  leg.  It  was  too 
bad  to  kill  the  poor  c ,  and  it  was  too  bad  to  kill 


WILLIAM  WARREN.  335 

the  poor  little  chickens.     I  was  a  brutal  fellow,  and  I 
knew  it. 

Warren  said :  "You  stood  it  longer'n  I  would.  Them 
durned  kiotys  's  got  two  kinds  o'  teeth — one  for  chickens 
and  wild  animals,  and  another  for  human  flesh.  Betcher 
never  try  to  tame  another  one.  Say,  them  devils  runs 
down  a  wounded  deer  or  buffler  when  they  find  one,  and 
they  get  him.  S'pose  we  go  down  on  a  buffler  hunt  some 
time.  What  d'ye  say?" 


AMOS   DECKER. 

SKITTERING   FOR    PIKE — LEGERDEMAIN — MY    ONLY    BUF- 
FALO  HUNT. 

AMOS  was  a  raw-boned  six-footer,  about  fifty  years 
old  when  I  met  him,  bronzed  with  exposure, 
and  tough  as  a  pine  knot.  He  had  drifted 
ahead  of  civilization  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century,  clear- 
ing timber  in  Michigan,  breaking  prairie  in  Illinois,  tak- 
ing up  claims  and  selling  out  when  the  neighborhood 
became  too  thickly  settled ;  one  of  those  restless  men  that 
were  always  found  on  the  best  quarter-section  within  a 
township  awaiting  a  customer  for  his  betterments.  Un- 
like his  class,  he  was  a  man  of  fair  education,  whose  mem- 
ory retained  much  of  what  had  evidently  been  an  exten- 
sive course  of  reading  in  his  youth;  but  his  associations 
had  sadly  impaired  any  grammatical  rules  he  might  once 
have  known. 

Amos  may  or  may  not  have  been  a  bachelor.  He 
lived  alone  in  a  well-built  log  house  on  a  bank  of  the 
Neosho,  near  where  Burlington  now  stands;  and  it  was 
<not  good  form  in  Kansas  in  those  days  to  be  curious 
(about  the  past  of  such  men  as  you  chanced  to  meet. 
[What  little  I  knew  of  his  early  life  I  gathered  from 
stories  that  he  related  in  the  intimacy  of  camp  life.  War- 
ren and  I  had  been  down  the  Verdigris  River  as  far  as 
Independence,  and  then  struck  off  northeast  to  the  Neo- 
sho and  up  that  stream.  We  were  looking  for  land  for 
several  Eastern  men  who  wanted  to  settle  together  if 
certain  conditions  of  wood,  water,  etc.,  could  be  found 
on  Government  land,  for  they  would  not  buy  claims. 


AMOS  DECKER.  337 

When  we  got  up  as  far  as  the  cabin  of  Amos  my  pony 
was  lame,  and  we  stopped  and  asked  if  we  could  rest  and 
see  to  our  critters.  We  spoke  enough  of  the  Missouri 
language,  which  largely  prevailed  in  that  part — although 
occasionally  mixed  with  and  diluted  by  the  vocabulary 
of  Posey  county,  Ind. — to  know  that  a  horse  was  a  "crit- 
ter," and  a  cow  was  a  "creetur." 

After  the  usual  question,  "Whar  ye  from?"  and  the 
answer  being  satisfactory,  he  looked  at  my  pony's  foot 
and  pulled  out  a  cactus  thorn  that  had  somehow  got  in 
it,  although  no  Indian  pony  would  go  near  a  bed  of  that 
plant.  He  said:  "I  wouldn't  ride  him  any  more  to-day; 
stop  over  with  me  to-night,  and  the  pony  '11  be  better  in 
the  mawnin'."  In  the  last  sketch  I  referred  to  the 
troubles  that  disturbed  the  Territory  of  Kansas,  and 
strangers  were  cautious,  judging  one  to  be  "free  State" 
or  "pro-slavery"  by  his  nativity.  Amos  probably  sized 
us  up  long  before  we  had  him  figured  down,  but  it  did 
not  take  long  to  decide  that  he  was  to  be  trusted,  be- 
cause he  could  pronounce  his  r's,  that  shibboleth  of  the 
man  reared  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line — in  those 
days  at  least. 

Warren  and  I  had  been  camping  and  living  on  small 
game  tempered  with  salt  pork  and  the  occasional  pur- 
chase of  corn  bread,  and  when  Amos  suggested  that  if 
the  water  was  not  so  muddy  after  the  rain  he  would  shoot 
a  pike  for  dinner,  Warren  suggested  catching  one.  Amos 
had  no  fish  hooks,  but  we  had  a  few  and  some  lines.  I 
watched  him  rig  for  skittering,  and  remarked  that  he 
had  fished  before. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "we  used  to  ketch  pike  in  the  Wabash 
an'  Massaseep  by  puttin'  on  a  killy  an'  slingin'  'em  out." 

I  caught  the  word  "killy,"  and  said:  "I  s'pose  it's  a 
long  time  since  you  left  New  York." 


338  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"Never  lived  in  New  York,"  and  he  gave  me  a  look 
of  inquiry.  "What  made  ye  think  that?" 

"I  meant  New  Jersey.  They're  close  together,  and  I 
made  a  mistake.  I  can  always  tell  a  man  that  comes 
from  New  Jersey,  no  matter  how  long  he's  been  away 
from  it." 

"See  here,  stranger!  I  was  a  boy  in  New  Jersey 
once,  but  you  don't  know  it ;  you  only  guessed  at  it.  You 
may  be  good  at  guessin' ;  guess  ag'in." 

"Well,  you  lived  down  along  the  salt  water,  about 
Raritan  Bay  or  Staten  Island  Sound.  I  only  want  to 
look  into  a  man's  eye  to  tell  where  he  comes  from,  and 
didn't  have  to  ask  where  you  came  from." 

Then  I  mystified  him  with  some  old  sleight-of-hand 
tricks;  passed  a  half  dollar  through  his  hat,  let  him  draw 
a  card  from  the  pack,  and  then  after  putting  it  back  with 
the  rest  told  him  to  feel  in  his  coat  pocket  and  find  it, 
and  several  such  simple  tricks,  which  puzzled  him. 

Said  he:  "Look  a-here,  stranger,  that's  the  best  I 
ever  seed.  Oncet,  on  the  old  Massaseep,  I  seed  a  feller 
do  sich  tricks,  but  he  had  a  show  on  a  boat  an'  a  stage, 
an*  we  wus  so  fur  off  we  c'u'dn't  see  how  he  dun  'em; 
but  I'll  be  durned  ef  you  don't  do  'em  right  here  with  my 
own  keerds.  Say,  do  'em  over  agin',  will  ye?  I  want  to 
see  how  ye  do  'em.  Say,  stranger,  ef  you'll  stay  here 
with  me  I'll  keep  ye  six  months  an'  show  ye  the  bes' 
claims  about  yere." 

I  declined  to  repeat  the  tricks ;  all  great  magicians  re- 
sist such  entreaties.  I  had  puzzled  this  shrewd  frontiers- 
man by  some  simple  things,  and  didn't  care  to  lose  my 
prestige,  just  as  you  never  wish  to  make  a  second  rifle  or 
pistol  shot  after  a  very  lucky  first  one. 

When  we  were  alone  Warren  said :  "Them  tricks  was 
all  right;  I  don't  know  just  how  you  do  'em,  but  that 


AMOS  DECKER.  339 

business  of  locating  the  old  man  in  New  Jersey  is  what 
bothers  me,  and  it  bothers  him.  How  did  you  do  it?'* 

"If  I  tell  you  will  you  keep  it?" 

"Betcher!  Wouldn't  tell  him,  but  it's  workin'  on  the 
old  man  an'  it's  workin'  on  me." 

"Well,  it's  all  based  on  a  word.  He  called  a  little  bait 
fish  a  'killy,'  and  that  name  is  one  left  by  the  Dutch  set- 
tlers along  the  salt  waters  of  New  York  and  New  Jersey, 
and  is  used  in  no  other  part  of  the  country.  You  noticed 
that  I  guessed  New  York  first,  but  corrected  it  on  the 
second  guessing." 

Amos  had  turned  his  back  to  put  some  wood  on  the 
fire,  and  I  carelessly  opened  a  book  on  a  shelf  and  saw  his 
name  in  it.  Quickly  closing  it,  I  resumed  conversation, 
and  afterward  laboriously  spelled  out  his  name  from 
the  lines  in  his  hand. 

"Stranger,"  said  he,  slowly,  "you  ar'  suttenly  a  gifted 
man.  To  look  at  yer  no  one  would  ever  mistrust  it,  but 
I've  read  about  how  these  things  could  be  done,  but 
never  put  no  faith  in  it;  but  now  I'm  convinced. 
Stranger,  put  it  thar!" 

"Amos,"  said  I,  "I'm  a  greenhorn  from  the  East,  but 
I  object  to  being  called  'stranger'  by  every  stranger  that 
I  meet.  I'm  no  more  a  stranger  to  a  man  I  never  saw 
before  than  he  is  to  me,  and  I  won't  stand  it.  If  you'll 
drop  that  word  we'll  be  friends  and  go  a-fishing.  What 
d'ye  say?" 

Warren  had  caught  some  minnows  in  a  little  stream, 
and  we  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  river  to  fish  with 
some  heavy  pecan  poles,  which  our  host  pronounced 
"pecawn;"  this  is  a  species  of  hickory  which  bears  the 
nut  of  commerce  and  is  very  strong  and  elastic,  but 
heavy.  The  water  appeared  to  be  so  muddy  that  there 
seemed  but  little  chance  of  a  fish  seeing  our  bait,  but  we 


34:0  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

kept  casting  and  skittering  until  I  got  a  rise  that  took 
the  bait  off  the  hook.  This  was  encouraging.  Then 
Amos  got  a  strike  that  was  a  savage  one;  it  pulled  the 
line  through  the  ring  on  the  tip  of  his  hickory  switch, 
and  scorched  his  hand  in  checking  the  rush.  We  had 
no  reels ;  I  had  probably  seen  them  in  Eastern  stores,  but 
had  no  knowledge  of  them  in  practical  fishing.  It  was 
evident  that  Amos  knew  as  much  about  fishing  as  I  did, 
and  that  was  considerable,  I  thought.  He  soon  checked 
the  fish  and  landed  it,  a  pike  of  some  kind  that  may  have 
weighed  five  pounds.  Warren  struck  something,  wet  his 
foot  and  lost  his  line,  because  it  was  short  and  was  not 
fastened  to  the  butt. 

"Betcher,"  said  he,  "that  fish  would  weigh  fifty 
pounds.  It  was  the  biggest  one  I  ever  hooked.  No 
man  c'd  V  stopped  him.  Did  you  see  how  he  took  that 
line  out?  Why,  lightnin*  'ud  a'  been  left  away  behind  in 
that  race." 

Amos  suggested  that  the  pike  would  make  our  din- 
ner, and  we  let  the  minnows  go  and  went  up  to  his 
cabin.  While  he  prepared  dinner  I  looked  after  the 
ponies,  which  were  staked  out  on  the  prairie;  led  them 
down  to  water,  and  gave  them  some  salt.  I  wonder  if 
an  Indian  ever  wasted  salt  on  a  pony?  It's  doubtful. 
About  the  only  thing  that  I  ever  saw  them  give  a  pony 
freely  was  a  club.  My  tough  little  fellow,  which  I  had 
named  "Jimsey,"  a  sort  of  pet  form  of  "Jim,"  had  become 
greatly  attached  to  me  through  the  agency  of  salt  and 
sugar.  Warren  came  out  and  put  a  hobble  on  his  pony, 
and  I  turned  mine  loose.  I  urged  him  to  do  likewise, 
but  he  said : 

"That's  all  right;  Jimsey  will  stay  here  with  Pete  be- 
cause he's  hobbled,  but,  betcher,  you  let  'em  both  loose 
an'  you'll  never  see  'em  ag'in." 


AMOS  DECKER.  341 

"Let  Pete  loose,  an'  if  he  goes  away  I'll  give  you  my 
claim.  The  ponies  will  get  better  feed  if  they  can  range, 
and  a  stranger  can't  catch  'em.  We're  goin'  to  stop  here 
all  night,  and  if  our  ponies  go  off  you  can  have  my  claim 
and  its  betterments." 

"It's  a  go;  Pete  wouldn't  fetch  more'n  $30,  an'  your 
claim,  with  house,  well  and  ten  acres  of  broken  prairie 
all  fenced  is  wuth  more'n  ten  times  that." 

His  pony  was  relieved  from  the  hobble,  and  we  went 
in  to  dinner.  The  pike  had  been  boiled,  and  had  a  dress- 
ing of  drawn  butter,  a  most  unusual  thing  in  that  region 
of  plain  living  and  high  thinking.  But  Amos  had  cows, 
which  are  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  have  a  habit  of 
giving  milk  as  a  raw  material  and  leaving  its  manufac- 
ture into  cheese  and  butter  to  other  hands.  The  ques- 
tion was:  Whose  hands?  If  I  had  puzzled  Amos  with 
a  few  simple  tricks  of  legerdemain,  such  as  are  published 
in  many  books  on  the  subject,  he  presented  the  problem: 
"Who  milked  the  cows  and  made  the  butter?"  Of  course 
he  could  do  it,  but  he  was  often  gone  for  weeks,  and  cows 
must  be  milked  twice  each  day.  He  had  butter,  and  that 
is  all  we  knew. 

After  dinner  and  pipes  Warren  went  out,  and  reported 
that  our  ponies  were  not  in  sight.  "Gone  down  in 
the  timber  to  browse  on  the  mulberry  bark,"  said  Amos. 
"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  you  fellers  make  a  mistake  in 
thinking  them  animiles  'ud  druther  have  corn  shelled  or 
on  the  cob  than  to  browse.  They'd  druther  git  down 
in  that  bottom  timber,  an'  eat  hazel  brush  an'  young  mul- 
berry an  inch  thick  'an  to  have  all  the  corn  'at  you  c'd 
set  afore  'em.  Let  'em  go;  they'll  look  out  fer  you  ef 
you  give  'em  salt  an'  sugar,  es  Fred  says  he's  done. 
Don't  you  worry." 

Morning  came,  and  after  breakfast  we  went  to  the 


342  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

edge  of  the  woods;  I  gave  the  shrill  whistle  with  the 
fingers,  and  called  my  pony's  name.  Soon  he  answered, 
and  both  animals  followed  us  back  to  the  cabin.  Here 
I  will  say  that  I  am  not  a  horseman,  and  have  no  liking 
for  horses.  Few  men  like  horses.  They  will  tell  you 
that  they  "like  a  good  horse."  That  means  that  they 
like  him  while  he  is  young  and  stylish,  but  when  all  that 
is  past  he  may  be  sold  to  pull  an  ash  cart.  Out  on  such 
love!  Compare  it  with  the  love  that  the  sportsman  has 
for  his  dog,  that  has  worked  the  fields  with  him  in  heat  and 
cold,  his  skin  torn  by  briers  in  summer  and  his  feet  frozen 
in  the  winter's  snows.  Is  the  old  dog  sold  into  drudgery 
in  his  old  days?  "Not  on  your  life!"  as  the  phrase  of  the 
day  goes.  Therefore  I  do  not  believe  that  the  average 
man  loves  the  horse  for  more  than  he  can  get  out  of  him. 
I  have  a  regard  for  the  horse  as  a  most  useful  animal,  just 
as  I  have  a  regard  for  a  locomotive  as  a  bit  of  useful  ma- 
chinery ;  but  I  think,  with  Charles  Dickens,  that  the  head 
of  a  horse,  at  its  best,  is  not  a  handsome  thing,  admitting 
that  some  horses  may  have  comparatively  handsome 
heads  by  some  modification  of  that  long  nose.  I  am 
wondering  what  Dickens  would  have  thought  of  the  head 
of  a  moose !  There  is  no  doubt  but  Mr.  Moose  sees  most 
delicate  lines  of  beauty  in  the  facial  contour  of  Mrs. 
Moose,  but  we  are  not  educated  up  to  their  standard — 
that's  the  trouble,  and  a  moose  is  the  homeliest  animal 
that  my  eyes  ever  gazed  upon,  take  head,  body  or  legs, 
or  in  "the  altogether." 

Before  we  left  the  breakfast  table  Amos  had  arranged 
a  buffalo  hunt  for  the  next  week,  and  we  agreed  to  go 
with  him.  His  idea  and  that  of  his  neighbors  was  to  take 
ox  teams,  and  bring  back  loads  of  beef  for  present  use 
and  for  salting  for  winter,  as  well  as  to  get  the  skins  for 
robes  to  use  or  to  sell. 


AMOS  DECKER.  343 

The  week  rolled  around,  and  our  arms  were  cleaned 
and  oiled,  knives  sharpened,  the  covered  wagon  packed 
with  camping  necessities  and  all  ready  to  hitch  the  cattle 
to  long  before  the  train  of  ten  wagons  hove  in  sight.  By 
the  time  they  reached  my  cabin  we  had  the  ponies  haltered 
and  tied  behind,  and  the  two  yoke  of  oxen  hitched  and 
ready  to  fall  in  the  rear  of  the  procession  when  it  passed. 
We  went  off  to  the  southwest,  and  in  a  few  miles  struck  a 
well-broken  trail  near  the  head  of  the  Verdigris,  which 
they  had  left  some  distance  back  to  go  out  of  the  way  to 
pick  us  up.  We  were  out  four  nights  before  we  reached 
the  Arkansas  River,  some  eighty  miles  from  our  place. 
The  country  was  rolling  prairie,  with  timber  along  the 
frequent  streams,  and  on  the  third  day  out  I  saw  the  first 
live  buffalo,  a  herd  of  several  hundred,  which  pungled  off 
like  porpoises  when  we  came  in  sight.  I  wondered  why 
the  men  did  not  chase  them,  but  learned  that  they  were 
not  going  to  kill  a  buffalo  until  there  was  a  chance  to 
camp  and  go  at  it  with  some  sort  of  system.  Warren 
counted  heads,  and  said  that  the  other  ten  wagons  con- 
tained twenty-five  men,  and  with  ours  there  were  thirty 
ponies  in  the  party. 

Amos  seemed  to  be  the  leader  and  directed  the 
movements.  We  camped  near  the  mouth  of  a  small 
stream  on  the  north  bank  of  the  river;  the  wagons 
were  arranged  so  as  to  form  a  corral  to  keep  the  live 
stock  in  at  night  to  prevent  a  stampede  by  wolves  or  buf- 
falo, but  we  had  to  enlarge  the  circle  with  logs.  The 
oxen  and  ponies  had  been  feeding  while  we  were  doing 
this,  and  then  we  gathered  them  in  for  the  night;  three 
guards  were  appointed  to  keep  watch,  one  at  a  time,  for 
fear  of  accident  that  might  stampede  our  stock  in  spite  of 
the  corral,  and  leave  us  in  bad  shape.  There  was  danger 
that  some  prowling  band  of  O sages,  Kaws  or  other  In- 


344  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

dians  might  do  this,  so  an  armed  man  patroled  outside 
the  corral  while  we  slept. 

It  rained  in  the  night,  but  the  morning  was  fair,  and 
leaving  ten  men  to  see  that  the  stock  did  not  wander  and 
to  keep  camp,  we  saddled  our  ponies,  and  started  to  look 
for  the  game.  To  a  question  Amos  replied:  "No,  we  had 
our  guard  all  picked  afore  we  started,  and  we  don't  ex- 
pect you  boys  to  do  any  of  it.  Them  ten  men  will  take 
care  o'  things  night  an'  day.  I  ast  ye  to  come  an'  hunt, 
didn't  I?  Then  what  ye  talkin'  'bout?  There  ain't  even 
an  ole  bull  in  sight,  but  you  can  see  where  the  herd  went 
north  toward  the  Smoky  Hill  Fork,  an'  mebbe  gone  on 
to  the  Saline  or  way  up  to  Solomon  Fork.  But  there's 
more — a  heap  more — an'  if  we  don't  strike  'em  to-day, 
why,  to-morrer's  comin'.  If  it  was  dry  ground  we  might 
see  where  there  was  a  herd  by  the  dust;  there's  an  old 
bull  now  off  by  hisself,  but  we  don't  want  him.  There's 
nothin'  good  about  him  but  his  overcoat,  an'  that's  on'y 
good  for  buckskin.  Them  old  bulls  get  druv  out  by  the 
young  ones,  an'  just  herd  by  theirselves." 

We  went  north  to  the  divide  that  separates  the  waters 
flowing  into  the  Arkansas  from  those  of  the  Smoky  Hill 
Fork  of  Kaw  River,  which  feeds  the  Missouri  as  far  north 
as  Kansas  City.  The  Kaw  River  is  spelled  "Kansas"  on 
the  maps,  but  nobody  called  it  anything  but  Kaw,  after 
the  tribe  of  degraded  Indians  who  lived  along  its  waters. 
Why  this  was  so  may  be  classed  in  Lord  Dundreary's 
catalogue  of  "things  no  fellow  can  find  out."  It  was 
near  noon  when  our  ponies  were  hobbled,  and  given  a 
couple  of  hours  to  graze  and  drink,  while  we  ate,  smoked 
and  talked.  There  had  been  no  introductions;  such 
things  were  superfluous  in  those  days  among  such  men, 
and  we  had  scraped  acquaintance,  and  knew  a  few  Johns, 
Jims,  Bills  and  Joes.  They  were  rough,  ignorant  men, 


AMOS  DECKER.  345 

frontier  farmers,  and,  as  I  was  in  that  class,  we  got  along; 
but  it  was  evident  that  Amos  had  exploited  me  as  a  ma- 
gician, for  they  were  curious  about  me  after  we  made 
camp  at  night.  They  were  satisfied  that  I  was  a  Free 
State  man,  for  that  was  the  first  thing  that  a  man  wished 
to  satisfy  himself  on  in  those  days — are  you  friend  or  foe? 

This  curiosity  became  too  strong  to  be  controlled, 
and  Joe  broke  out  with :  "Amos  says  you  can  see  through 
a  pack  of  cards  and  tell  how  they  will  deal;  is  that  so?" 

"No;  Amos  says  many  things  besides  his  prayers. 
Sometimes  I  make  a  guess  at  what  cards  a  man  holds, 
and  if  I  guess  anywhere  near  right  he  thinks  it  wonder- 
ful. Hand  me  that  pack,  and  I'll  make  a  guess  on  the 
hand  you  have  after  you  have  cut  the  cards." 

This  was  a  rash  statement,  for  the  pack  was  well  worn 
and  dirty;  but  my  fame  was  at  stake.  Running  them 
over  in  shuffling,  I  got  the  four  aces  and  a  king  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pack,  and  then  laid  it  on  the  blanket.  "Now 
you  cut  the  cards  anywhere  you  like,"  said  I,  and  he  cut 
near  the  middle.  Catching  the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  I  put 
the  "cut"  back  on  top,  and  played  the  old  trick  of  dealing 
from  the  end  of  the  pack,  giving  him  a  card  from  the 
bottom  and  myself  one  from  the  top.  When  the  deal 
was  finished  I  said :  "It's  hard  to  see  through  these  cards, 
they're  so  dirty;  but  your  hand  beats  mine.  Keep  'em 
all  together;  don't  spread  'em  out;  I  can  guess  better 
when  they're  bunched.  Let's  see!  I  guess  you've  got 
four  aces  and  a  queen;  no,  it's  a  king,  the  king  of  spades, 
I  think ;  it's  a  black  one ;  no,  it's  the  king  of  clubs." 

He  showed  down  the  hand  as  I  called  it,  and  those 
simple  men  were  astounded.  Both  Warren  and  Amos 
told  me  that  the  hand  was  dealt  from  the  bottom,  but  they 
had  seen  more  of  such  things  than  the  others.  The  com- 
pany of  these  men  was  no  pleasure;  they  were  men 


346  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

shrewd  enough  at  a  bargain,  but  children  in  everything 
else;  they  had  read  nothing,  could  talk  of  nothing  but 
their  own  uneventful  lives.  Yet  it  was  necessary  that 
something  should  be  done  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  sit- 
ting around  a  camp-fire  and  listening  to  the  talk  of  men 
who  could  not  talk.  Therefore,  to  relieve  myself  from 
the  dreadful  situation,  ten  times  more  lonsome  than  if  no 
human  being  had  been  within  one  hundred  miles,  I 
"opened  my  box  of  tricks,"  learned  in  the  idle  moments 
of  schoolboy  life,  and  amused  myself  and  companions 
with  the  few  simple  bits  of  legerdemain  which  I  could  call 
to  mind.  Later  in  life  many  such  situations  have  oc- 
curred, when  if  you  wanted  any  fun  you  must  make  it 
yourself,  and  it  is  my  mature  opinion  that  such  a  crowd 
have  so  little  humor  that  they  don't  appreciate  anything 
except  practical  jokes  or  the  wonders  of  the  magician. 
The  humorous  story  or  the  witty  repartee  is  wasted  on 
them  as  much  as  it  would  be  on  a  Digger  Indian.  Yet 
that  is  the  state  of  mind  of  over  half  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States,  taking  them  "by  and  large.'''  It  is  safe  to 
say  that  outside  what  may  be  called  the  educated  classes 
few  appreciate  a  joke  unless  it  is  in  its  roughest  costume. 
Refine  it,  put  it  in  evening  dress,  and  it  "is  caviare  to  the 
general;"  but  the  few  who  can  and  do  enjoy  it  are  those 
for  whom  it  was  intended.  Jests  are  of  so  many  kinds 
that  some  are  offensive.  Bacon,  in  his  "Essays,"  says: 
"As  for  jest,  there  be  certain  things  which  ought  to  be 
privileged  from  it — namely,  religion,  matters  of  state, 
great  persons,  any  man's  present  business  of  importance, 
any  case  that  deserveth  pity."  This  definition  is  "funny" 
— to  this  generation. 

It  is  funny  because  "matters  of  state"  are  the  subject 
of  political  cartoons  in  almost  every  illustrated  paper  of 
to-day,  and  as  for  "great  persons" — they  are  the  fellows 


AMOS  DECKER.  347 

who  get  it!  A  young  friend  at  my  elbow,  who  is  fully 
abreast  of  the  current  idioms  of  the  day,  says:  "Yes,  an' 
they  git  it  frequent,  right  where  Alice  wears  her  pearls." 

"Johnny,"  I  asked,  "what  do  you  mean?  What  has 
Alice  and  her  pearls " 

"Why,  they  get  it  in  the  neck!  See?  Oh,  I  forget, 
you  wasn't  alive  last  week.  Say,  that  was  a  big  scald  on 

Senator  in  last  week's  Scalder.  Did  you  see 

it?" 

This  is  the  sort  of  interruption  that  comes  to  a  man 
who  writes  of  old  times  when  his  surroundings  are  not 
congenial. .  After  removing  Johnny  I  tried  to  get  back 
by  a  jump  of  forty  years  from  the  present  to  the  day  when 
the  buffalo  grazed  from  Oregon  to  Texas. 

On  our  way  back  to  camp  we  saw  a  few  solitary  bulls, 
and  some  time  in  the  night  there  was  an  alarm  that 
turned  us  all  out  with  our  rifles  ready  for  action.  One 
of  the  herders  had  gone  off  to  the  eastward,  and  struck 
a  small  bunch  of  buffalo  and  had  killed  a  calf.  He  had 
brought  the  dressed  carcass  and  the  skin  back,  and  had 
stretched  the  latter  between  two  trees  just  outside  the 
camp,  and  some  wolves  had  torn  it  down  and  were  fight- 
ing over  it.  A  few  fire  brands  settled  the  dispute,  and 
the  torn  skin  was  brought  in  the  corral  in  the  interest  of 
harmony. 

The  next  morning  was  rainy,  but  the  ponies  had  their 
corn  and  we  our  buffalo  veal,  and  off  we  went.  In  less 
than  an  hour  we  saw  the  whole  prairie  covered  with  buf- 
falo, grazing  and  going  south.  From  a  knoll  the  entire 
earth  seemed  covered  with  them  as  far  as  we  could  see. 
There  might  have  been  a  million,  or  a  hundred  million, 
or  as  many  figures  as  you  please  to  add  to  the  guess.  I 
tell  you  in  sober  truth,  and  I  ask  you  to  believe  me,  I 
don't  know  how  many  buffalo  were  in  that  herd.  War- 


348  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

ren  said:  "Betcher  there's  more'n  ten  hundred  millions!" 
You  may  take  Warren's  estimate  or  mine,  as  you  prefer, 
or  you  may  go  there  and  try  to  count  the  tracks  of  that 
great  herd,  I  don't  care;  but  I  will  assert  that — that — 
there  was  a  big  lot  of  buffalo  out  there  in  the  open  air  of 
that  Kansas  prairie  one  day  in  the  fall  of  1858.  That 
herd  was  too  big  for  a  few  men  on  ponies  to  stampede, 
and  we  put  in  the  spurs  and  got  alongside.  Those  on 
the  outside  took  the  alarm,  and  pressed  on  without  other 
effect  than  to  cause  the  others  next  them  to  think  they 
were  pressing  for  better  forage.  Amos  had  told  me  to 
pick  a  barren  cow  if  I  could  find  one,  a  fat  young  cow 
that  had  no  calf  near  her,  and  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  in  the 
rear,  and  not  get  mixed  in  the  herd,  or  there  would  be 
a  dead  man  and  a  dead  pony. 

There  was  then  the  spice  of  danger  in  this  hunt!  It 
began  to  be  more  interesting.  I  had  thought  it  would  be 
sufficient  to  make  the  trip  and  study  the  types  of  men, 
see  a  herd  of  buffalo  with  its  flankers  and  rear-guard  of 
wolves  ready  to  capture  a  weak  straggler,  or  a  calf  that 
strayed  too  far;  but  now  that  there  was  danger  there  was 
a  promise  of  sport.  Hotspur  truly  says: 

"The  blood  more  stirs 
To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare." 

Our  party  had  stretched  out  over  two  miles  on  the 
flank  of  the  herd,  which  was  moving  slowly  in  the  mass, 
but  more  swiftly  near  the  hunters,  and  an  occasional  shot 
was  heard.  My  pony  would  not  take  me  too  near;  he 
had  evidently  seen  a  herd  of  buffalo  before,  and  I  only 
feared  danger  in  the  rear.  It  was  getting  to  be  interest- 
ing, and  after  I  had  singled  out  my  game  and  tried  to  get 
alongside  it,  with  no  other  buffalo  intervening,  it  was 
exciting. 


AMOS  DECKER.  349 

Unconsciously  I  gave  a  whoop  as  the  picked  animal 
came  in  plain  view,  and  the  pony  didn't  need  spur  nor 
whip  to  quicken  his  pace  to  get  alongside;  he  understood 
it  all.  Once  alongside  the  galloping  beast,  a  new  diffi- 
culty appeared ;  she  was  at  my  right  hand,  and  I  feared  to 
twist  in  the  saddle,  not  knowing  how  the  pony  would  act, 
and  I  had  never  shot  from  my  left  shoulder.  I  did,  how- 
ever, shift  the  rifle  to  my  left  arm  and  fired.  The  pony 
never  swerved,  and  the  huge  beast  dropped.  The  shot 
caused  the  animals  near  me  to  crowd  away,  and  I  circled 
about  and  shot  again  as  the  animal  was  about  to  rise;  a 
few  struggles  and  I  had  killed  a  buffalo. 

"Come  on!  Kill  some  more!"  yelled  Warren  as  he 
passed,  seeking  a  fresh  victim;  but  I  had  cooled  down, 
and  was  content  to  watch  the  herd  as  it  turned  off  to  the 
right  up  the  river,  looking  more  like  a  sea  covered  with 
rolling  porpoises  than  anything  I  can  liken  it  to.  I  sat 
on  my  pony  gazing  on  the  wonderful  sight  while  my 
companions  followed  the  herd  and  thought  only  of  kill- 
ing. To-day  it  seems  like  a  dream.  Where  we  rode  be- 
side that  great  herd  the  locomotive  shrieks,  and  a  genera- 
tion of  men  has  been  born  who  may  occasionally  plow  up 
a  bone  or  a  horn  that  tells  of  an  extinct  race  of  great 
animals. 

It  was  well  along  in  the  afternoon  before  all  had  gath- 
ered at  the  camp,  and  the  rain  still  fell.  The  guards  fed 
the  ponies,  and  we  made  a  big  fire  to  dry  ourselves  by, 
and  by  the  time  supper  was  over  there  was  a  rainbow  in 
the  east.  Amos  came  over  to  our  wagon,  and  wanted  to 
know  how  I  liked  buffalo  hunting. 

"Well,  Amos,"  I  replied,  "it's  a  good  deal  like  goin' 
into  a  barnyard  an'  shooting  cattle;  just  galloping  along- 
side of  a  steer,  an'  pluggin'  him  with  lead  until  he  drops. 
I'd  a  heap  sight  rather  shoot  woodcock." 


350  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"Woodcock!  What's  them?  Them  air  big  wood- 
pickers  'at  drums  on  trees  fur  grub?  Why,  they  ain't 
good  to  eat,  an'  it  takes  as  much  powder  an'  lead  to  kill 
one  on  'em  as  it  does  to  kill  a  buffler  that  weighs  over  a 
quarter  of  a  ton.  Wai,  that's  all  right;  you  can  shoot 
woodpickers  ef  you  like,  but  when  I  shoot  I  want  to  see 
something  worth  shooting  at." 

I  hadn't  the  courage  to  explain  what  a  woodcock  was ; 
it  wouldn't  have  helped  the  matter  in  the  least,  nor  the 
disposition  to  argue  the  case  of  sport  versus  meat;  that 
would  have  been  equally  hopeless.  So  I  said:  "Won't 
the  wolves  spoil  the  skins  and  the  meat  to-night  before 
we  can  save  both  in  the  morning?" 

"Yes,  some  on  'em,"  said  he;  "but  it's  the  best  we 
could  do,  an'  if  we're  short  we'll  kill  some  more.  We 
allers  kill  enough  for  ourselves  an'  the  wolves,  too; 
there's  plenty  of  'em." 

After  Amos  left  us  Warren  said:  "Betcher  didn't  kill 
any  more  buffler  'an  I  did.  Honest,  now,  how  many?" 

"One." 

"Is  that  all?  Why,  what  joo  do  all  day?  Betcher  I 
killed  half  a  dozen,  and  put  my  mark  on  a  lot  more;  I 
come  out  here  for  fun,  I  did,  an'  now  the  gang's  goin' 
back  as  soon  as  they  skin  an'  load  up  the  meat." 

There  was  no  use  in  talking  to  this  man.  I  began  to 
feel  myself  out  of  touch  with  the  rest,  holding  opinions 
which  I  did  not  care  to  expose  to  ridicule  by  expressing 
them,  so  I  turned  the  talk  in  another  direction.  We 
could  hear  the  wolves  howl  and  fight  as  long  as  we  heard 
anything,  and  when  silence  came  morning  came  with  it. 

Camp  was  broken,  and  the  oxen  were  hitched  up  and 
the  wagons  scattered  to  do  their  work.  Guards  and  all 
hands  went  to  the  labor  of  skinning,  and  from  inquiry 
afterward  I  learned  that  nearly  one  hundred  buffaloes 


AMOS  DECKER.  351 

had  been  killed  by  seventeen  men!  But  they  were  not 
all  choice  beeves,  and  then  only  the  forequarters  with  the 
hump  rib  were  to  be  taken  back,  for  those  and  the 
tongues  were  the  choice  parts.  If  time  permitted,  they 
would  all  be  skinned,  and  the  wolves  would  put  a  polish 
on  the  bones. 

I  had  been  greatly  impressed  by  that  pigeon  slaughter 
which  Cooper  relates  in  one  of  the  "Leather  Stocking" 
tales,  where  the  people  loaded  a  cannon  and  brought 
down  hundreds  at  a  shot,  while  Natty  protested,  killed 
one  pigeon  for  his  own  use  and  went  his  way.  That's  a 
good  thing  for  a  boy  to  read;  it  had  its  effect  on  me  all 
through  life.  It's  the  fashion  to  sneer  at  Cooper,  and 
say  that  there  never  were  any  such  Indians  as  his.  That 
may  be  so,  but  it's  the  fault  of  the  Indians.  I  like  Coop- 
er's Indians,  but  the  real  thing,  with  the  dirt  and  vermin- 
laden  blanket,  "Faugh!  an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothe- 
cary, to  sweeten  my  imagination." 

We  will  pass  over  the  disgusting  detail  of  skinning 
and  loading  up.  Six  skins  fell  to  Warren  and  me,  and 
several  forequarters  and  tongues.  That's  all  there  is  of 
our  hunt.  The  party  was  a  most  uninteresting  one,  de- 
void of  intelligence  and  consequently  of  humor.  Amos 
and  Warren  were  the  only  two  whose  company  was  en- 
durable on  this,  my  first  and  only  buffalo  hunt.  If  my 
friend  of  later  years,  old  Nessmuk,  had  been  there  he 
would  have  agreed  with  me,  and  in  his  fondness  for  par- 
ody might  have  said : 

"Better  fifty  shots  at  woodcock 
Than  ten  tons  of  buffalo." 

I  learned  that  the  hide  of  a  buffalo  bull  was  not  worth 
taking,  because  the  hair  was  thin  or  absent  on  the  hind- 


352  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

quarters,  and  that  their  beef  was  worthless;  but  that  the 
fine  robes  came  from  the  cows,  and  that  the  hump  rib  of 
a  two-year-old  heifer  was  a  fine  bit  of  beef. 

On  the  wall  of  my  den  hangs  a  pair  of  buffalo  horns 
saved  from  the  slaughter  of  that  day.  Below  them  are  a 
pair  of  snowshoes,  and  the  sword  of  an  officer  of  the  line. 
Sometimes  an  old  man  rests  his  eyes  upon  these  relics 
until  the  present  is  forgotten;  the  rushing  bison  with 
their  thundering  tramp  and  grunting  snort  go  by  in 
countless  herds,  which  somehow  change  into  battalions 
of  armed  men  with  glistening  bayonets  and  ragged  col- 
ors, which  afterward  fade  into  the  brown  of  the  forest 
and  the  stillness  only  broken  by  the  fall  of  the  snow- 
shoe,  until  he  is  aroused  by  a  soft  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  a  soft  voice  by  his  side  says :  "Hadn't  you  better  get 
ready  for  dinner?  You've  been  asleep." 


FRED  MATHER. 


A  CHRISTMAS   WITH  "OLD   PORT." 


RETURN  OF  THE  WANDERER  AND  THE  FEAST  PORT  TYLER 
MADE  IN  HONOR  OF  THE  "jAYHAWKER"— STORIES 
TOLD  BY  PORT,  BILLY  BISHOP,  MAT  MILLER  AND 
OTHERS  UNTIL  DAYLIGHT  CAME  THROUGH  THE 
WINDOWS. 


IT  was  not  a  bottle  of  "crusty  Oporto,"  that  celebrated 
promoter  of  gout,  that  made  this  particular  Christ- 
mas a  day  to  be  remembered;  but  the  "Old  Port" 
was  none  other  than  my  dear  old  friend,  Porter  Tyler, 
who  figures  frequently  in  this  book;  the  same  old  bach- 
elor, market  gunner  and  trapper  of  Greenbush,  N.  Y., 
whom  I  had  left  something  over  five  years  before  to  seek 
sport  in  the  West. 

It  was  the  old  story:  A  boy  had  spurned  the  parental 
roof,  and  longed  for  adventure;  had  found  it,  and  came 
back  under  the  ancestral  shingles.  Many  weeks  before 
this  I  had  gone  the  rounds  of  old  friends,  and  shaken 
hands;  but  I  was  not  in  physical  shape  to  engage  in  our 
usual  sports  of  winter.  The  freshly-turned  prairie  sod 
with  its  decaying  vegetation  had  left  more  than  what 
some  of  the  Kansas  settlers  called  "a  leetle  tech  o'  ager." 
But  one  day  the  mail  at  West  Albany  brought  the  fol- 
lowing: 

"GREENBUSH,  December  18,  1859. 

"You  OLD  JAYHAWKER:  Old  Port  will  serve  a  'coon,  with 
all  the  trimmings,  one  week  from  to-night,  the  same  being 

853 


354:  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Christmas.  He  will  get  up  this  dinner  in  honor  of  your  return 
to  civilization.  A  few  of  your  old-time  friends  will  be  there — 
not  many,  for  there  is  only  one  'coon;  but  what  they  lack  in 
numbers  they  will  make  up  in  quality.  Tobi  Teller  has  seen  the 
list,  and  pronounced  it  'a  small  party,  but  intensely  respectable/ 
Jim  Lansing  said:  Tort  has  killed  the  fatted  'coon;  the  calf  has 
returned.'  Don't  fail  to  be  with  us,  for  Old  Port  will  not  be 
able  to  skin  a  muskrat  in  a  month  if  you  disappoint  him.  It 
isn't  often  he  gets  a  'coon  about  here,  and  yesterday  he  brought 
one  in  and  said:  'This  is  just  the  thing  to  get  up  a  dinner  for 
Fred.'  So  never  mind  your  liver  nor  your  ague,  but  come. 
Let  me  know  at  once,  but  don't  refuse. 

MARTIN  MILLER." 


Dr.  Jones  said  that  if  I  wished  to  shake  off  the  accu- 
mulated malaria  of  years  I  must  be  very  careful  in  the 
matter  of  diet,  and  that  a  roast  'coon  might  do  a  lot  of 
things  which  I  can't  now  recall,  but  to  which  I  gave  re- 
spectful attention.  There  is  no  possible  use  in  employing 
a  doctor  unless  you  put  yourself  in  his  hands  and  obey 
his  orders.  That  is  merely  common  sense.  Yet  I  went 
to  the  dinner.  How  true  it  is  that  "all  the  good  things 
have  been  said,"  and  that  when  we  read  a  good  book  it 
seems  as  if  the  author  had  somehow  forestalled  our 
thoughts  before  we  got  to  the  point  of  writing  them. 
Honore  de  Balzac  said:  "I  can  resist  anything  but  temp- 
tation." I  had  often  acted  on  this  saying,  but  could 
never  have  formulated  it.  I  acted  on  it  in  the  case  of 
this  invitation.  Away  with  Dr.  Jones  and  his  hygienic 
treatment  of  a  disordered  liver!  Was  I  to  become  a  slave 
to  a  disgruntled  gland?  Never!  "Enslave  a  man  and 
you  destroy  his  ambition,  his  enterprise,  his  capacity." 

Climbing  the  hill  which  is  now  Mechanic  street,  but 
then  was  known  as  the  road  between  the  woods,  the  cot- 
tage where  that  modern  Natty  Bumpo  lived  was  entered, 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  355 

and  there  was  General  Martin  Miller.  Said  he:  "Port 
will  want  to  know  that  you  are  here,  and  I'll  go  tell  him; 
I've  sent  down  for  old  Billy  Bishop  to  come  up  here,  and 
help  serve  the  dinner,  for  we  want  Port  to  sit  down  and 
keep  down." 

While  General  Miller — Mat  we  called  him,  for  we 
were  not  too  stiff  in  our  intercourse — was  gone  in  came 
Billy  Bishop.  The  old  fellow  shook  hands  and  said:  "I 
don'd  like  to  get  this  hill  up  by  Fred  Aiken's  ole  spook 
house  when  der  nide  coom,  but  by  der  day  he  was  all 
ride."  Then  in  came  Tobias  Teller,  a  bachelor  of  some 
fifty  summers  and  no  one  knew  how  many  hard  winters, 
who  lived  down  on  the  banks  of  the  classic  stream  which 
we  called  the  Popskinny,  the  spelling  of  which  is  disputed 
by  Colonel  Teller  and  Mr.  Stott.  He  was  a  delightful 
old  fellow,  with  a  flavor  of  cognac  and  madeira  about 
him  that  mellowed  the  atmosphere  in  his  vicinity.  He 
was  called  Tobi  among  his  intimates.  His  worthy 
nephew  (my  army  comrade),  Colonel  David  A.  Teller, 
resembles  him  in  many  respects,  especially  in  being  a 
bachelor.  Then  came  Low  Dearstyne,  pilot  and  captain 
of  the  railroad  ferry.  His  name  was  Lawrence,  but  the 
Albany  Dutch  shortened  it  to  Low;  please  rhyme  this 
with  "now,"  and  not  with  the  negative.  The  Irish  call 
the  name  Larrence,  and  abbreviate  to  Larry,  and,  as  the 
old  Dutch  have  gone,  this  explanation  may  be  necessary : 
Larry  is  Irish,  and  Low  is  Dutch  for  Lawrence.  Then 
came  Jim  Lansing,  a  man  of  about  forty-five  years,  who 
kept  a  hotel  at  Clinton  Heights,  but  had  been  a  hotel  man 
in  several  places.  He  also  was  from  one  of  the  old  Dutch 
families. 

The  dinner  came  on.  There  was  no  printed  nor  writ- 
ten menu,  but,  as  I  remember  it,  the  feed  was  in  this 
order : 


356  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

MENU. 
Soup  de  snapping  turtle. 

Coutlettes  de  snapper,  braisee. 
POISSON. 
Brook  pike  au  naturel.  Pommes  de  terre. 

RELEVE. 

Roast  coon,  entire.    Motto:  "Whole  hog  or  none." 
Sweet  potatoes. 

ENTREES. 

Grouse  au  Port  Tyler. 

ENTREMETS. 

Mat  Miller's  cheese. 
Punch. 

As  master  of  ceremonies,  General  Miller  took  his 
share  of  the  good  things  without  flinching,  and  destroyed 
a  goodly  portion  of  the  succulent  'coon,  and  wrecked  a 
grouse  so  that  no  anatomist  could  have  identified  the 
remnants;  and  when  the  punch  came  on  he  arose  and  re- 
marked: "There  doesn't  seem  much  to  be  said  after  this 
grand  gorge  that  our  host  has  got  up  in  honor  of  the 
wayward  youth  who  went  to  the  great  West  with  'Excel- 
sior' as  his  motto,  and  has  returned  like  the  Biblical  hero 
from  herding  with  swine  to  the  paternal  mansion,  with- 
out the  motto  on  the  linen  which  fluttered  in  the  rear, 
and  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  letter  in  the  post- 
office/  As  he  is  a  Shakespearean  scholar,  I  can  say  to  you 
in  the  words  of  the  melancholy  Jaques:  'Bid  him  wel- 
come. This  is  the  motley-minded  gentleman  that  I  have 
so  often  met  in  the  forest.'  Let  us  pledge,  standing:  The 
return  of  the  calf — I  mean  the  return  of  the  prodigal." 

Tobi  turned  his  off  eye  in  my  direction,  and  Low 
Dearstyne  nudged  me  to  get  up.  Never  had  I  spoken 
at  a  dinner  in  a  formal  manner.  Miller's  quotation  from 
"As  You  Like  It"  suggested  another  saying  of  Jaque's, 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  357 

beginning,  "I  met  a  fool  in  the  forest,"  but  it  was  evident 
that  it  was  very  inappropriate;  but,  as  I  got  up  in  a  be- 
wildered way,  I  somehow  blundered  through  some 
thanks,  and  finished  by  saying:  "Somewhere  between 
the  lids  of  the  volume  that  Mat  quotes  you  will  find  these 
words,  'I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and  your  welcome 
dear/  " 


General  Miller  then  called  on  Port  to  rise,  and  tell 
how  he  came  by  the  'coon  which  we  had  eaten.  The  old 
man  would  not  get  up,  but  said : 

"Y*  see,  it  was  this  way.  I  was  off,  over  beyond, 
away  back  of  Teller's,  an'  a-makin'  toward  the  hell-hole 
to  pick  up  a  few  pa'tridges,  'cause  Mat  and  Tobi  said  they 
wanted  to  have  Fred  come  over  here  on  Christmas.  As 
I  watched  the  snow,  I  see  what  looked  like  a  funny  track. 
The  snow  was  soft,  an'  it  had  been  a-thawin',  an'  the  sur- 
face was  all  spotted  with  fallin'  leaves  and  dropping 
snow;  but  there  was  a  kind  o'  regularity  in  these  marks 
that  made  me  look  closer,  an'  sez  I  to  myself,  sez  I,  that's 
some  kind  of  an  animile  that's  been  a-runnin'  here,  an'  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  It  was  a  long  track,  as  near  like 
what  a  baby  could  make  if  it  walked  through  the  snow; 
for  there  was  a  heel  to  it,  and  it  wasn't  a  bit  like  the  tracks 
of  dogs,  foxes,  cats,  minks  or  other  animals  that  can  be 
read  on  sight;  but  I  was  bound  to  know  what  the  thing 
was.  I  had  no  dog — I  never  hunt  with  a  dog  if  I  can 
help  it — and  after  tracking  it  a  few  miles  I  found  the 
thing  in  a  tree  and  shot  it.  When  it  came  down,  I  knew 
by  the  bushy-ringed  tail  what  it  was.  It's  the  only  'coon 
that  I  ever  heard  of  being  killed  around  Greenbush,  and 
that's  all  there  is  about  it.  My  father,  who  lived  up  in 
Vermont,  used  to  tell  of  a  hunter  who  had  no  bullet  for 


358  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

his  Queen  Anne  musket,  and  rammed  down  a  peach-pit 
on  top  of  the  powder  and  shot  at  a  deer,  but  thought  he 
missed.  Three  years  later  he  saw  a  commotion  in  the 
bushes,  and  fired  into  it  and  killed  a  big  buck  which  had 
a  peach  tree  growing  out  of  his  back ;  and  the  hunter  not 
only  got  a  great  lot  of  venison,  but  took  home  three 
bushels  of  peaches." 

Tobi  Teller  said:  "I  rise  to  a  question  of  privilege. 
This  story  of  the  deer  and  the  peaches  appears  in  the 
sagas  of  the  Norsemen,  and  is  coeval  with  the  sun  myths, 
with  the  story  of  the  man  who  cut  off  the  dog's  tail,  ate 
the  meat  and  gave  the  dog  the  bone.  It  is  just  as  good, 
however,  as  the  day  it  was  told  by  the  lamented  Baron 
Munchausen,  and  I  would  be  the  last  man  to  take  a  shav- 
ing off  it.  But,  as  every  man  must  contribute  his  mite 
of  unwritten  history,  I  will  ask  General  Martin  Miller  to 
tell  our  guest  what  has  happened  in  Greenbush  since  he 
left  us  to  seek  fame  and  fortune  in  the  wild  West  half  a 
dozen  years  ago." 

MAT  MILLER'S  STORY. 

The  General  looked  the  party  over  as  he  arose  and 
said:  "In  this  quiet  village  there  is  little  change  from 
year  to  year,  and  the  only  thing  which  I  can  recall  that 
might  interest  you  is  the  stealing  of  Mrs.  Parsons'  geese. 
You  all  know  that  this  old  lady,  who  lived  down  on 
Columbia  street,  raised  great  numbers  of  geese,  and  de- 
rived quite  a  revenue  from  the  sale  of  feathers  and 
dressed  birds.  A  neighbor,  on  a  back  street,  used  to  help 
dress  these  fowls;  his  name  was  Gordonier;  you  all  knew 
him,  and  he  stuttered  awfully.  When  he  was  drunk  he 
didn't  stutter,  and  so  we  knew  just  what  his  spiritual 
condition  was.  When  there  was  a  revival  in  the  church 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  359 

there  was  no  penitent  louder  than  old  Gordonier,  nor  one 
so  ready  to  backslide  when  the  revival  was  over. 

"One  morning,  when  the  early  birds  of  Greenbush 
had  gathered  about  the  two  bar-rooms  which  guarded 
the  approach  to  the  Albany  ferry,  for  their  morning  bit- 
ters, old  Gordonier  entered.  Said  he :  'D-d-d  ye  hear  the 
n-n-news?' 

"  'No/  said  John  Pulver;  'what  is  it?' 

"  'S-s-s-som'b'dy  s-s-stole  all  Mrs.  P-p-parsons'es 
g-g-geese.  It  co-co-couldn't  ha'  been  me,  for  I  was  in 
S-s-s-schenectady.' 

"Then  he  crossed  to  the  other  bar-room,  and  the 
crowd  followed  him,  and  he  told  the  same  story,  winding 
up  with:  'It  c-c-c-couldn't  'a'  b-b-been  me,  for  I  was  in 
S-s-s-schenectady.'  Afterward  he  went  down  to  Ike 
Fryer's  bar,  and  the  story  was  retold.  John  Pearl  had 
heard  the  yarn  three  times,  and  went  off  and  told  Pop 
Huyler.  Pop  thought  a  minute  and  said:  'Let's  go 
'round  to  old  Gordonier's  house,  and  see  if  he's  got  the 
geese.'  So  they  went  and  knocked  on  the  door,  and 
when  the  ole  woman  opened  it  Pop  said:  'Good  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Gordonier;  we  just  bought  a  couple  o'  geese  of 
the  ole  man,  an'  he  sent  us  around  here  for  'em.'  The 
ole  woman  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said:  'All  right; 
just  wait  here  a  second,  and  I'll  bring  'em  to  you;  we 
didn't  raise  but  a  few  this  year,  an'  I  didn't  think  he'd  sell 
any.'  She  was  very  deaf,  and  didn't  hear  the  men  follow 
her  into  the  house,  but  just  as  she  pulled  a  couple  of 
geese  from  under  the  bed  John  Pearl  raised  the  curtain, 
and  he  and  Pop  Huyler  saw  a  great  pile  of  geese,  and 
John  remarked  that  she  had  a  great  many.  'Land 
sakes,'  said  she,  'you  don't  call  half  a  dozen  many,  do 
ye?  Why,  they're  jest  thrown  in  there  on  top  of  a  pile  o' 
'taters,  an'  that  makes  'em  loom  up.' 


360  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"They  took  the  two  geese  up  to  Mrs.  Parsons,  who 
had  just  discovered  her  loss,  and  told  her  where  she 
would  find  the  rest  of  the  stolen  geese,  and  then  found 
Gordonier,  who  by  this  time  had  absorbed  so  many  ante- 
breakfast  nips  that  he  stuttered  very  little. 

"The  old  man,  long  and  lank,  was  leaning  against 
the  bar  as  they  entered,  and  said:  'It's  too  bad,  but  I 
dunno  who  done  it.' 

'  'You're  sure  you  didn't  get  any  of  'em?"  asked  Pop. 

"  'Sure?  How  c'u'd  I  when  I  was  in  S-s-s-schenec- 
tady  all  night?  Just  came  in  on  the  train.' 

"  'All  right,  but  we  found  the  geese  under  your  bed, 
and  you've  got  to  go  down  with  us  to  Squire  Hoge- 
boom's  until  Mrs.  Parsons  makes  a  complaint;  come 
along!' 

"He  begged  and  protested,  said  that  some  of  the  boys 
had  put  the  geese  under  his  bed,  if  there  were  any  geese 
there,  and  the  excitement  loosened  his  stuttering  valve, 
which  the  nips  had  cemented  down,  and  away  they  went 
to  the  Squire's;  but  on  reaching  the  corner  he  broke 
away,  and  ran  to  the  dock  and  jumped  off,  with  a  crowd 
at  his  heels.  John  Stranahan  jumped  into  a  boat  and 
fished  him  out.  Mrs.  Parsons  refused  to  make  a  charge, 
but  the  old  fellow  picked  and  returned  to  her  thirty-nine 
geese.  When  Pop  Huyler  met  him  and  asked:  'When 
have  you  been  over  to  S-s-s-schenectady?'  the  old  man 
replied:  'I  on'y  w-w-wish  I'd  a  d-d-died  the  day  I 
j-j -jumped  the  d-d-dock  off.' 

"There  was  a  time,  not  over  a  dozen  years  ago,  when 
if  Bate  Hayden's  troughs  for  feeding  horses  were  all 
found  on  top  the  little  schoolhouse  there  was  a  suspicion 
that  our  guest  had  a  hand  in  it,  but,  as  he  has  been  absent 
a  number  of  years,  he  can  prove  an  alibi,  like  old  Gor- 
donier, and  say  he  was  in  S-s-s-schenectady." 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  361 

Billy  Bishop,  who  had  been  waiting  on  the  table  dur- 
ing the  dinner,  and  was  now  serving  the  punch  with  fre- 
quent regularity,  remarked:  "Der  old  Gordonier  was  a 
ole  hicocric,  so  he  was." 

"Now,  Billy,"  said  Tobi,  "you  are  a  little  jealous  be- 
cause he  got  several  jobs  of  hog-killing  that  you  wanted. 
There  are  worse  men  than  old  Gordonier." 

"Yes,"  replied  Billy;  "dere's  meny  wus  as  ole  Gor- 
donier; dey  keep  'em  chained,  but " 

The  master  of  ceremonies  looked  at  Mr.  Teller. 

TOBIAS  TELLER'S  STORY. 

"You  all  knew  Bill  Fairchild,  big-hearted,  generous 
Bill,  who'd  give  the  shirt  off  his  back  to  any  one  who 
needed  it.  Well,  one  Sunday  morning  in  May  a  poor 
clam  peddler's  horse  drew  his  wagon  to  the  ferry  with  its 
owner  lying  flat  on  the  load.  It  was  early,  and  people 
looked  and  remarked  that  the  man  was  drunk,  and  passed 
on.  Colonel  Mike  Bryan  wanted  some  clams,  and  came 
out  and  selected  what  he  wished  and  tried  to  rouse  the 
man,  and  found  that  he  was  dead.  Some  one  happened 
to  know  him,  and  also  knew  where  he  lived,  and  sent  for 
his  wife.  In  about  an  hour  she  came  over  from  Albany, 
and  about  that  time  Bill  dropped  down  that  way.  She 
was  bemoaning  her  fate,  and  the  fact  that  no  clams  had 
been  sold.  The  fact  was,  the  man  had  intended  to  reach 
some  of  the  river  towns  before  Monday  morning,  and 
peddle  his  stock  on  the  homestretch,  but  had  died  from 
some  cause;  and  the  old  horse,  finding  no  controlling 
hand  on  the  lines,  had  turned  around  somewhere,  and 
started  for  home  with  his  load  and  his  dead  master  on  its 
top.  The  crowd  stood  around  idly  looking  at  the  dead 
man  and  the  sorrowing  woman,  who  really  hadn't  money 


362  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

enough  to  pay  ferriage  for  the  horse  and  wagon,  when 
Bill  pushed  through  and  learned  the  situation. 

"The  man  had  been  taken  into  Charley  Bradbury's 
livery  stable,  and  with  only  a  word  to  the  wife  Bill 
mounted  the  wagon  and  started  down  street  singing  that 
old  song,  but  in  better  voice  than  it  was  usually  sung : 

'Here's  clams,  prime  clams  I  have  to-day; 
They're  fat  and  fresh  from  Rockaway; 
They're  good  for  to  roast,  they're  good  for  to  fry, 
And  they're  good  for  to  make  a  clam  pot-pie.' 

"The  church-going  people  looked,  and  some  thought 
Bill  must  be  drunk,  for  everybody  knew  him;  but  if 
people  didn't  come  out  he  knocked  at  the  doors  and  told 
them  all  about  the  case,  and  before  noon  he  was  back,  all 
sold  out.  He  asked  the  woman  how  much  the  load 
ought  to  bring,  and  she  said  it  had  cost  $6,  and  at  retail 
prices  ought  to  bring  $15. 

"  'Well/  said  Bill,  'I  don't  know  much  about  selling 
clams,  and  here's  all  I've  got  for  'em,'  and  he  emptied  a 
lot  of  silver  and  bills  in  her  lap,  and  went  out.  The  pile 
counted  out  nearly  $40,  and  it  was  suspected  that  Bill  had 
put  in  all  that  was  left  of  his  month's  salary  from  the 
railroad.  When  we  asked  Bill  about  it  he  would  curl  his 
lip  and  say: 

"  'I'm  a  good  clam  peddler,  an'  can  get  the  prices. 
Clams,  ma'am?  Johnny,  open  the  lady  a  nice  fat  one. 
Fresh?  Yes,  m'm.  See  'em  kick.  I  think  they  spoiled 
a  good  clam  peddler  when  they  made  me  a  bookkeeper. 
Yes,  sis;  they're  fresh;  how  many?' 

"  'How  do  you  sell  'em?' 

"  Thirty  cents  a  peck/ 

'  'Mother  says  she'll  give  twenty-five.' 

"  'Tell  your  mother  to  go  to  heaven.     Does  she  think 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  363 

I  stole  'em?  Whoa!  back,  Jake!  Here's  another  cus- 
tomer. Yes'm,  just  up  by  lightning  express  from  Rock- 
away;  caught  last  night.  Ah,  see  how  the  juice  runs  out 
of  his  shell,  thinking  how  you'll  enjoy  him.' 

"Poor  Bill!  When  he  was  burned  to  death  trying 
to  rescue  the  books  from  the  office  of  the  Boston  &  Al- 
bany Railroad,  when  the  station  burned  at  East  Albany, 
and  an  appeal  was  made  in  behalf  of  his  widow,  the  board 
of  directors  said:  'He  did  no  more  than  his  duty.' 

"It  is  true  that  corporations  have  no  souls,  but  Bill 
Fairchild  had  one,  and  when  I  think  of  his  sacrifice  for 
the  widow  of  an  unknown  clam  peddler  and  his  heroic 
sacrifice  of  his  life  for  a  soulless  corporation,  I  recognize 
the  hero.  Gentlemen:  To  the  memory  of  Bill  Fair- 
child!" 

We  had  all  known  the  reckless  dare-devil,  Bill,  who 
in  a  good  cause  would  cry  "clams!"  in  a  quiet  village  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  and  whose  tragic  death  was  fresh  in 
the  memory  of  all  present;  so  when  the  next  speaker 
began  telling  of  him  we  were  surprised.  General  Miller 
had  selected  his  victim,  and  we  heard 


"Talking  about  Bill  Fairchild  reminds  me  of  a  winter 
night  when  my  boat  had  been  frozen  up  for  months,  and 
the  ice  in  the  Hudson  had  begun  to  get  tender  in  spots. 
No  teams  had  crossed  the  river  for  a  fortnight,  and  where 
the  foot  passengers  crossed  there  were  boards  placed  in 
the  most  dangerous  spots.  Although  there  was  a  man 
in  charge  of  the  boat,  who  slept  on  board,  I  kept  watch 
of  the  river  to  see  that  everything  was  safe.  We  usually 
wintered  the  boat  in  the  Albany  basin,  but  this  time  she 
was  moored  in  the  canal  between  the  two  big  freight 
houses  of  the  B.  &  A.  R.  R. 


364:  MEN  1  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"On  this  particular  night  there  was  a  heavy  fog  in 
which  a  man  could  easily  get  lost,  and  the  ice  was  getting 
weaker  every  hour.  I  had  looked  in  at  the  railroad 
office,  and  found  Bill  at  work  on  his  books,  and  sat  down 
by  the  stove.  After  a  while  he  looked  up,  and  remarked : 
'It's  a  bad  night  on  the  ice.  Some  people  crossed  the 
river  just  before  dark,  but  you  wouldn't  get  me  on  it. 
No,  sir!  I  wouldn't  try  to  cross  that  river  for  a  thousand 
dollars/ 

"  'Listen !'  said  I.     'What  was  that?' 

"  'Somebody  singing,'  suggested  he. 
"A  wail  came  from  the  river,  distinctly  this  time,  for 
the  night  was  still.  Bill  grabbed  a  lantern,  and  we 
rushed  out  on  the  dock.  The  feeble  light  did  not  show 
an  object  ten  feet  away,  but  we  heard  a  splash  and  a 
groan,  apparently  not  far  out  in  the  river. 

"  'Hang  on!'  cried  Bill;  Til  be  with  you  soon,'  and  in 
spite  of  protest  he  dashed  down  the  slope  by  Dandaraw's, 
where  people  took  the  ice  to  cross.  He  shouted,  and 
soon  I  heard  this  dialogue: 

"'Oh,  Lord!  Help  me  out!  I'm  a  respectable  col- 
ored man,  and  live  over  in  Nigger  Hollow,  an'  my  name's 
Stephen  Baker.  Oh,  do  please  send  someone  quick!' 

"Then  Bill  said:  'You're  respectable,  are  you?  What 
did  you  say  your  name  was?' 

"  'It's  Stephen  Baker,  an'  I'm  a  respectable  colored 
man.  Oh,  do  send  some  one  quick,  for  I'll  drown  sure!' 

"  'Are  you  Steve  Baker  that  stole  Sim  Diamond's 
chickens?' 

"  'No,  Lord,  no!  I  never  took  no  chickens;  it  was 
my  brother  Jim.  Oh,  come  quick!' 

"  'What  you  got  hold  of?' 

"'Aboard.    Oh,  do  come!' 

"All  the  while  Bill  was  looking  for  the  edge  of  the 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT:'  3G5 

hole  and  taking  off  his  clothes.  In  he  went,  and  towed 
the  board  and  the  darkey  to  the  sound  ice ;  but  both  were 
too  chilled  to  get  out.  I  had  alarmed  the  men  in  Dan- 
daraw's  bar,  and  they  pushed  out  boards  and  rescued 
both  men.  Bill  had  an  attack  of  pneumonia  and  rheu- 
matism, and  lost  a  month's  work.  And  that's  the  kind  of 
man  Bill  Fairchild  was,  and  you  all  know  how  he  died." 

As  I  write  this,  thirty-seven  years  later,  Whittier's 
verse  comes  to  mind: 


"Dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew." 


When  Low  had  finished  Billy  Bishop  said:  "Yes,  Pill 
Fairchild  vos  a  goot  fayler;  we  should  trink  punch  mit 
him."  And 

"They  drank  to  one  saint  more." 

General  Mat  arose,  and  suggested  that  a  representa- 
tive Jayhawker  from  Bleeding  Kansas  was  anxious  and 
willing  to  tell  something  about  the  human  fruit  which 
the  trees  bore  in  that  sanguinary  region,  or  perhaps  a 
story  of  Osawatomie  Brown,  who  had  been  hanged  to 
a  tree  in  Virginia  some  three  weeks  before,  would  be 
acceptable. 

THE  LOST  HAT. 

I  had  expected  to  be  called  on,  and  had  laid  out  what 
I  thought  to  be  a  good  story,  but  Miller's  remarks  sent 
the  whole  thing  out  of  mind.  I  was  nervous  and  self- 


366  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

conscious  to  a  degree,  and  so  with  some  remarks  about 
the  newspapers  having  told  the  whole  Kansas  story,  and 
perhaps  a  little  more,  I  said: 

"Our  host,  Porter,  would,  I  know,  rather  hear  of  my 
hunting  and  trapping  experiences  than  about  jayhawk- 
ing,  as  they  call  it,  so  I  will  tell  him  how  I  lost  a  hat  on 
a  hunting  trip.  It  was  not  a  valuable  hat;  just  one  of 
the  kind  that  you  see  in  rural  villages — a  hat  that  under 
no  conditions  could  ever  have  been  a  new  one.  You 
know  the  kind;  they  were  never  created  by  man,  but 
have  the  air  of  having  always  existed.  If  I  cared  to  par- 
aphrase Byron  I  would  say: 

'I  had  a  hat  which  was  not  all  a  hat, 
Part  of  the  brim  was  gone,  etc.* 

"These  details  are  necessary  when  you  tell  about  a 
hat,  for  its  shape,  texture  and  color  are  all  that  comprise 
individuality  in  a  hat.  Its  texture  was  felt,  and  its  shape 
was  not  like  the  shiny  'nail  keg'  which  adorns  the  brow 
of  a  member  of  Assembly  when  he  comes  to  Albany;  its 
color,  if  it  had  any,  is  beyond  my  power  to  describe.  The 
sun  had  toyed  with  its  hues  until  it  had  attained  that 
delicate  shade  of  old-mown  hay  seen  on  the  chin  whiskers 
of  the  member  from  Sqeedunk. 

"That's  the  best  description  I  can  give  of  the  hat.  It 
was  a  rare  day  in  autumn;  you  know  how  the  hills  and 
the  maples  looked;  I  won't  go  into  that  because  I  didn't 
lose  them;  they  get  around  every  year. 

"I  had  a  new  turkey  call,  a  sort  of  small  box  with  a 
thin  cover  that  said  'keouk'  when  you  tickled  it,  and  the 
turkeys  were  wild  in  Kansas,  wilder  than  deer,  and  an 
old  gobbler  that  had  been  shot  at  once  or  twice  took  no 
chances.  I  found  a  place  to  lie  in  the  leaves  behind  a 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  367 

huge  pine  log;  laid  my  rifle  handy,  and  at  intervals 
worked  the  new  call.  After  a  while  a  distant  gobble  was 
heard.  More  call  and  nearer  gobble,  and  I  began  to  feel 
very  good.  Soon  a  fine  gobbler  came  in  sight,  strutting 
and  feeling  his  way.  I  had  learned  not  to  overdo  the 
calling  trick,  and  kept  silent  as  he  advanced.  I  wanted 
to  get  him  to  come  within  thirty  yards,  and  then  try  to 
take  him  in  the  head  or  neck,  and  utilize  him  for  a  dinner ; 
so  I  watched  under  a  limb  that  I  had  laid  on  top  of  the 
log.  He  was  probably  fifty  yards  away,  and  my  heart 
was  pumping  more  than  was  really  necessary,  when  I 
dropped  the  call,  and  began  to  scratch  leaves  like  a  hen 
turkey  looking  for  beech  nuts,  and  shoved  my  hat  up  on 
a  stick  to  represent  a  turkey's  back,  when !  Light- 
ning couldn't  have  been  quicker!  Something  hit  that 
hat  and  cut  my  head.  Feel  the  scar!  The  fact  was  that 
I  had  called  up  a  turkey  gobbler  and  a  wildcat  or  cata- 
mount at  the  same  time,  and  fooled  'em  both.  I  didn't 
get  the  turkey,  and  I  didn't  get  the  hat.  It  can't  be  lost, 
for  science  says  that  nothing  is  lost — it  only  changes  its 
form.  Content  with  that  assurance,  I  know  that  my  hat 
is  still  somewhere  in  this  universe;  perhaps  a  portion  of 
it  has  been  taken  up,  as  it  decomposed,  by  the  roots  of 
trees  and  plants,  and  so  it  lives  in  other  lives,  or  like 

'Imperious  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away.' 

"But  my  hat  was  gone,  taken  without  so  much  as  'by 
your  leave,'  and  I  only  regret  that  I  have  neither  the  hide 
of  the  catamount  nor  the  fragments  of  the  hat  to  decorate 
my  den.  I  can  only  say  with  Pope : 

'A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee, 
Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be.' 


S68  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

Billy  Bishop  by  this  time  was  beginning  to  feel  very 
numerous,  although  Port  had  tried  to  keep  the  punch 
under  his  own  eye,  for  Porter  was  a  man  who  seldom 
looked  upon  the  wine  when  it  was  rosy;  but  Billy  paid  no 
attention  to  the  color  of  it;  the  white  schnapps  of  Hol- 
land was  as  welcome  to  Billy  as  any.  He  wasn't  any- 
where near  being  "over  his  head,"  but  just  felt  his  oats, 
and  wanted  to  talk. 


"I'll  yust  tole  you  'bout  de  hell-hole  w'at  Port  had 
gone  by  for  pa'tridges.  John  Pulver  he  always  tell  'bout 
it,  an'  how  spooks  set  'round  de  edge  in  de  dark  of  de 
moon  an'  work  all  kinds  o'  harm  to  people  who  come 
by  der  hole.  I  was  a-choppin'  in  Glen  Van  Rensselaer's, 
when  I  dinks  I  co  by  Mr.  Teller's  for  my  ole  axe  to  split 
de  trees,  an'  it  was  so  warm  I  lie  down  by  myself  to  rest, 
an'  I  fall  asleep  by  a  nice  shady  place.  Wen  I  wake  it 
was  all  dark,  an*  I  see  a  light  down  in  a  deep  hole,  an' 
den  some  stumps  he  roll  up  f'um  der  hole  an'  dey  all  get 
me  around.  Den  I  knowed  dat  was  de  hell-hole  w'at 
John  Pulver  telled  aboud.  Was  I  schared?  Veil,  you 
bet  you  was  some  schared,  too,  ven  you  find  yourself  in 
de  mittel  von  some  stumps,  an'  dey  all  choin  hants  an* 
tance  you  aboud  like  some  chilld'n  w'en  dey  sing  'Ring 
Arount  Rosy/ 

"Pooty  soon  dey  stop,  an'  one  big  stump  he  say,  'Billy 
Bishop,  did  you  got  some  schnapps?  If  you  got  some, 
yust  put  der  pottle  on  my  head  an'  go  home/  I  find  der 
pottle  in  my  coat,  an'  I  put  him  on  dat  stump,  an'  by 
Chimminy,  dey  open  der  ring  an'  I  nefer  stop  runnin'  till 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  369 

I  reach  Ike  Fryer's  tafern.    Dey  can  all  chop  around  dot 
hell-hole,  but  I  know  when  I  got  a  blenty." 

JIM  LANSING'S  STORY. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Jim,  "I  think  that  if  Billy's  bottle 
had  not  been  so  near  empty  he  would  not  have  seen  so 
many  stumps  all  dancing  in  one  set.  Just  what  might 
have  happened  if  Billy  had  finished  the  bottle,  and  had 
none  to  leave  for  the  spooks,  will  never  be  known;  but 
that  remarkable  hole  has  a  great  many  stories  clustered 
about  it.  Men  who  call  themselves  geologists  say  it  is 
only  a  'sink/  but  there  is  a  foundation  for  the  dread  which 
some  people  have  of  it. 

"During  the  Revolutionary  War  a  portion  of  the 
American  army  were  in  barracks  on  what  is  now  the 
McCulloch  farm,  just  opposite  my  place  on  Clinton 
Heights.  Almost  every  night  the  sentinel  on  the  post 
at  the  southeast  corner  of  the  encampment,  just  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  deserted.  It  was  singular  that  all  the 
desertions  were  from  that  one  post,  and  'most  all  the  men 
were  soldiers  with  good  records.  The  officers  were  puz- 
zled, and  the  men  had  all  kinds  of  theories  about  it.  My 
grandfather  was  a  private  in  one  of  the  regiments  sta- 
tioned there,  and  he,  like  the  others,  was  perplexed  by 
the  singular  state  of  affairs.  This  is  what  he  told  us  boys 
in  later  years. 

I  "It  came  grandfather's  turn  to  be  detailed  for  guard 
duty.  A  sentinel  had  deserted  from  that  post  the  night 
before,  and  grandfather  went  to  his  captain  and  asked  to 
be  put  on  the  same  post.  Said  he,  'Captain,  I  don't  be- 
lieve all  these  men  deserted.  Some  of  'em  were  as  good 
men  as  can  be  found  in  the  army,  and  wouldn't  desert 
any  more  than  you  or  I  would.  If  you'll  get  me  as- 
signed to  that  post  I'd  like  it.' 


370  MEN  I  HAVE  FISHED  WITH. 

"  'How's  this,  Jim?'  said  the  captain,  for  grandfather's 
name  was  Jim,  same  as  mine;  'surely  you  don't  want  to 
desert  like  the  rest,  do  ye?' 

"  'Cap'n,'  said  my  grandfather,  'they  didn't  desert. 

There's and /  naming  two  of  his  chums; 

'they've  gone,  and  I  want  to  know  where.  Put  me  on 
that  post  on  the  relief  that  goes  on  past  midnight,  and  if 
there's  anything  to  find  out  I'll  find  it/ 

"When  he  went  to  his  post  after  midnight  he  picked 
his  flint,  and  put  fresh  powder  in  the  pan  of  his  musket, 
and  made  up  his  mind  that  no  matter  about  the  rules 
against  making  an  alarm,  he  would  shoot  the  first  thing 
that  came  near  him.  A  'coon  whickered  close  by,  but 
he  could  not  see  to  shoot  it.  A  hog  feeding  on  beech 
nuts  grunted  satisfaction  occasionally,  and  soon  came  in 
sight.  When  it  came  within  twenty  feet  grandfather 
fired  at  it,  and  an  Indian  rose  and  yelled.  When  the 
corporal  of  the  guard  came  there  was  a  dead  Indian  and  a 
hog  skin.  That  told  the  story.  Searching  parties  were 
sent  out,  and  found  a  hole  in  which  the  bodies  of  ten 
soldiers  lay.  Its  bottom  could  only  be  reached  by  jump- 
ing into  a  tree  and  descending.  Six  Indians  were  en- 
camped in  the  hole,  but  they  never  got  out  alive.  It's  no 
wonder  that  the  place  has  a  bad  name." 

"Jim,"  said  Tobi,  "I  read  that  story  in  my  school  his- 
tory when  I  was  a  boy." 

"That  proves  it,"  said  Jim;  "but  no  matter  where  you 
read  it,  my  grandfather  was  the  man  who  killed  the  In- 
dian in  the  hog  skin  that  had  murdered  all  the  sentinels 
on  that  post  by  the  corner  of  the  woods." 

Tobi  Teller  rose  to  a  point  of  order  and  remarked: 
"As  there  is  a  peep  of  daylight  coming  through  the  shut- 
ters, I  now  move  that  we  adjourn." 

A  feeling  of  sadness  comes  over  me  when  I  recall  the 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  "OLD  PORT."  371 

fact  that  all  these  old  friends  are  dead;  but,  in  fact,  most 
of  the  men  I  have  fished  with  have  gone  over  to  the  ma- 
jority, and  while  in  this  train  of  thought  up  comes  the 
old  verse : 

And  Jennie  is  wed  and  Annie  is  dead, 
And  Alice  she  fled  in  the  auld  lang  syne; 

And  I  sit  here  at  sixty  year, 
Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


THE  END. 


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